You laid me bare
On that hard, metal table,
Ripe for the dissection.
Cold metal chimes pure, high notes
As you move the tray of bright, clean, utensils.
Each with its own design,
To cut, pry and remove.
The anaesthesia dream
Keeps me suspended, yet alert enough
To watch your movements,
As the blade lowers
And my flesh parts.

You systematically change me,
Replace my vitals,
Something more to your liking.
Not a hint,
Nor a suggestion
Of anything like consequence
In your eyes.
No tiny skerrick of soul
Shows me that this hurts you,
No reluctance in your hand,
Even through the wincing arches.
I watch the transformation,
Before the bloom of my bloodied chest.
My heart is now a monitor,
That can be viewed and...