(This is the second installment of a two part piece. Please read first Cut Apart.)* He takes up a needle Threaded with a glimmering strand of surety Pierces my pink flesh, tender, already thrumming with awareness Following my self-otomy, I would not have thought to feel any more pain But there it is Slight, though And a relief each time he pulls the wounds closed I observe the first sutures, calmed by his confidence Puncture, pull, puncture-- He hands me the needle I can't expect someone else to do all the healing I pull the thread taut We alternate for a while, him piercing, me nipping And then, before I pinch another hurt closed, I reach in to extract the dead bits of my soul, blackened with disuse Refuse now, no need to carry these within me Pull I am now devoted to my task Bruises fading already Some gashes will forever remain a softer pink testament to true traumas But no more concern if I will heal properly, no thought of chronic infection I have been forced to analyze my frayed heartstrings Some scars I bear, but as I am stitched up I become my own inoculation My soul's surgeon