What of that is me that is so beautifully splayed against the cold tin tray beneath the light of the surgeon who is splitting me open.
What of that is not me who is the nurse, helping remove the blemishes and tumors that make the unrecognizable body mangled.
What of that situation makes this so uncannily familiar that all I do is try to change the person I am to be when I hear God sigh once more at my attempt to, again, change myself.
I hear the words,
"Love yourself,"
As if I hadn't already tried but the parts that I have attempted to nurture already lay in the bin of flesh the surgeon has already removed.
I could tell you that I was the surgeon but really,
Self-consciously,
I could not.
I say I could not because of the way the surgeons eyes resembled of those who pick me apart,
Also known as society.
I am not happy with myself,
I am an ever changing chameleon to the people I choose to bring apart of my life as they chisel me down to who and what they prefer.
I am not the color blue any longer for that represented his eyes,
I am not the color pink as my friend used as a disguise,
I am not the color black for that I realize,
I was once that.
So I lay here splayed on this cold tin tray,
Picked apart by the vultures who deem worthy and those who do not.
Do not tell me to love myself when I all know is to be a sponge of the people who pour toxic waters into my skin and I wear it like plastic wrap covering me in all of the wrong places.
I am no longer in control of my own strings that hang me to this life like a noose wrapped around my throat as I struggle to breathe and dance for an audience who no longer enjoys my company but my suffering.
I am not who I once was before I learned what perfect was.
