Surgery, sans anesthetic
Is--
Painful for all.
The Patient, of course.
The Surgeon--
Proxy to the hell.
But-- I was that who lay
Bare on the table, as you
Cut and snipped and sawed
me into pieces
To fix me
And call me the one
Who was living
Because-- you -- saved me
You did what you
Were trained to do.
I trusted the credentials.
--The skill, the touch--
But--I wasn't sick!
Or broken!
Or failing
--When you examined.
The illness--
Was only the myth
That I-- needed
To be better.
You studied this body
And mind and heart.
Though flawed, were fine.
Yet, you found unwell.
So, I let you open me--
And, while you felt the pang
Of seeing me writhe--
Hollowed on.
And, when I
Bled out--
You sighed,
'At least we tried.'
And I--
Had given my life.
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