The Surgeon

He is pulling shoe laces through my skin

With his celestial fingers

To make the thread lift, recoil and tug

My already bruising flesh

And make a patchwork quilt

Of my sore body

He practices needlework and upholstery

And makes a masterpiece of my wounds

His hands play God at his own game

And beat him

And so he rips and grips my shell

Pulls stiff wrinkles from ribs

And dimples from hips

To make a more perfect me

In his own image.

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