Dissection is an ugly sport,
was written on one of your bio papers.
But really, it seems so clean to me,
just a scalpel, latex, formaldehyde
and all systems are go. First you cut
the memories, time for picking the brain,
next is the assault on the senses and emotions
then the rose that blooms somewhere inside,
it happened too fast, cut, butchered, gone, then
the wrists, but in all the wrong ways.
Now you are propped up,
well preserved, yet falling into pieces.
sorry for the morbidity, I got carried away with the theme set in the first line, and once that happens I just run with it no matter how crazy it gets (actually I do censor myself to a certain degree). This poem makes me sad.
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