I'm not that kind of doctor,
you tell me, while holding the scalpel
slowly cutting necrotic epidermis
every time you grin and smile
the dead skin tissue, gone
parts of me, mending

My doctorate is in arts,
you say, while holding the needle
slowly stitching cardiac sutures
when you press your lips to my wrist
pieces of my heart sewn together
I am whole once more

I've studied philosophy and literature,
you claim, while holding the pump
slowly collecting platelets and plasma
as you look into my eyes, you are
delivering a life-saving transfusion
every piece is healed