Three Prongs

She pulled the fork
From the flesh of her
Soft belly
Its prongs had turned dull,
Making it more of a struggle

She pressed her palms
Over the three wounds
To staunch
The flow of her shame,
Stopping it from spilling out

She despaired to think
Of such a messy end—
A stream
Of her guilt, her disrepute
Drowning them all, but

She closed her eyes
And gave each wound
A name:
Depression, addiction, deception.
And removing her hands,

Let the baptism begin.

This is for readwritepoem's third napowrimo prompt: "three in a row"