Dissect
A sequel (of sorts) to ‘Autopsy’
Lying dead I am in my prime. It is only when I am subdued, at my weakest, that you wish to peer inside me. Cut me, eat me, dig your fingers in the folds of my brain and extract my desires. I make myself prettier to the softer on the pallet. I cannot claim to be a victim if I accepted your attack.
If you take a part of me, who owns it?
You start at the stomach, left empty on the presumption you would see it. Working your way up to the lungs, smeared in a charcoal coloured smoke that can only be inhaled at dusk. I fear what you will find when you open my heart and see that it is full to the brim with infantile adoration for your fleeting innocence.
If I let you dissect me once, does that permit you to continue?
Morgue bound, I now lie lifeless. You prod and poke at my stretched flesh. Repulsion comes with a morbid curiosity. We long to dissect what we don’t understand and we covet what we know can never be ours. No idol would be worth worship if they were attainable. If we have nothing to clasp at we tire. Could one man feel content knowing the corpse he is bound to is rotting, while fresh, untainted, bodies lie within arms reach.
If I give a part of myself to you, who owns it?
