A silent god, both mute and deaf. You only speak to me with your hands, with the soft trailing pads of your fingertips.
burning, scorching, tearing the flesh from my skin. You split me open, Moses and his ****** red sea.

You dissect, examine. You sew up. You do not put back together. Or maybe you do but wrong. All my organs out of place. Dirt swimming in my intestines. So wrong I rip myself back open to make it right. Rip until I can't taste the lavender on my tongue.

You don't wear gloves. You don't Because you don't care, or maybe because you do. Because it won't matter, or because it matters too much. Because this isn't dissection this is ****. Because this is your hands inside me. Because this is the satisfaction of stealing the last thing that was mine, the last pure part of me. This is you staring desperately into the murk hoping to see something, this is the horror of seeing nothing but tar.