He said “you’re beautiful inside”
What it supposed to mean?
I think I just can’t see those things
that he is tend to see.
Of course I cannot see them.
My eyes are tightly closed,
my eyes are covered with my forehead
that’s tensioned on my nose.
“You’re beautiful inside,
I’m gonna prove.
But you should calmly lie
and please don’t make a move.”
He doesn’t care about my voice,
the language that I spoke,
about my dress,
about my face
and feeling they evoke.
He said “you’re beautiful inside”,
and made three deepest cuts.
Now he can see what’s inside me:
my lungs, my spleen, my guts.
He put his hand beneath my heart,
his fingers slowly shrunk.
With other hand, so calmly,
he dug into my flank.
He does not care that I'm too heavy,
My vessels he likes more.
He said they’re cleaner than they could be.
The inner beauty of the sore.
My mind does not seem spoiled to him,
or crazy, weird or strange.
he said that nothing wrong with me
He wouldn’t let it change.
I told him I am dull.
There’s something he can find
cutting out my nerves.
I’d rather he was blind.
He doesn’t know what I
was doing all night long,
that I was drawing kidneys
with arteries beyond.
The only thing he does
is wash away my blood
from table and his shoes
to give another cut.
I’m paralyzed and sliced,
my skin is livor mortis.
Spread out on the table
small pieces of my cordis.
He does not think I stink.
For him I’m full of stories.
He’s making notes with knifes
He cuts away my worries.
He cuts hearts on my knees
Love letters made by stings.
With quiet me he’s playing
tic tac toe on my hips.
He has got to the heart of me,
studied my every cell.
disassembled and gathered back,
sewed neatly. He did that well.
He said “beautiful inside”
But nothing about the rest.
Thank you autopsist
You have seen in me only the best.
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 3:27 PM UTC
He said “you’re beautiful inside”
What it supposed to mean?
I think I just can’t see those things
that he is tend to see.
Of course I cannot see them.
My eyes are tightly closed,
my eyes are covered with my forehead
that’s tensioned on my nose.
“You’re beautiful inside,
I’m gonna prove.
But you should calmly lie
and please don’t make a move.”
He doesn’t care about my voice,
the language that I spoke,
about my dress,
about my face
and feeling they evoke.
He said “you’re beautiful inside”,
and made three deepest cuts.
Now he can see what’s inside me:
my lungs, my spleen, my guts.
He put his hand beneath my heart,
his fingers slowly shrunk.
With other hand, so calmly,
he dug into my flank.
He does not care that I'm too heavy,
My vessels he likes more.
He said they’re cleaner than they could be.
The inner beauty of the sore.
My mind does not seem spoiled to him,
or crazy, weird or strange.
he said that nothing wrong with me
He wouldn’t let it change.
I told him I am dull.
There’s something he can find
cutting out my nerves.
I’d rather he was blind.
He doesn’t know what I
was doing all night long,
that I was drawing kidneys
with arteries beyond.
The only thing he does
is wash away my blood
from table and his shoes
to give another cut.
I’m paralyzed and sliced,
my skin is livor mortis.
Spread out on the table
small pieces of my cordis.
He does not think I stink.
For him I’m full of stories.
He’s making notes with knifes
He cuts away my worries.
He cuts hearts on my knees
Love letters made by stings.
With quiet me he’s playing
tic tac toe on my hips.
He has got to the heart of me,
studied my every cell.
disassembled and gathered back,
sewed neatly. He did that well.
He said “beautiful inside”
But nothing about the rest.
Thank you autopsist
You have seen in me only the best.
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