*
*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