I lay upon cold steel, blinding lights loom
above my head. I hear my brain
confirm 'minor surgery' and then you
enter the room, scalpel in hand, aimed
at my chest. Not there! my mind screams,
then I feel the burn of ripped flesh;
a repugnant stench fills the room, a familiar smell,
the sickening, salty odor of blood.
Bones and cartilage moan as the scalpel shreds
with swift precision, one target in mind:
a fist-sized beating *****. Extraction.
I raise my head from frosted steel
in time to see your deed: ****** fingers,
clinched into claws, dive into the open cavity,
gouge holes into either side and wrench
the tiny ***** from its cave.
You hold it high above your head, a trophy;
crimson drips down your arm, soaks
a white sleeve like spilt wine on lace; you open
a glass jar, formaldehyde mixes with drops of blood
as the ***** plunges into your solution