I've made myself known.
Vulnerable.
I've opened that thing we call a heart, whatever that intanglible object, and it's changed the game completely.
When I did, I became open. Chest cavity awaiting the vultures enclosing. Do they strike? Will they? Or will my now open would be tended? This self-inflicted wound. I've taken a bonesaw and cut down the middle. Razor sharp and exact. The roaring blade of my emotions has made quick work of me.
You, surgeon. Do you repair me? Standing with scalpel and stitch. Choose. You must choose. I can feel the cold air in my chest. I cannot tell if the blood is making you sick.
You, expressionless surgeon. What is your next step? Do you not see that I have done this for you, surgeon? I should die here on this table. The metal makes my blood cold. It races through to my exposed heart. I'm leaking. I must've hit a vein. Or an artery. Whateverthefuck. I'm bleeding and I can feel it. I can see your eyes flickering from your tools to me. Me to your tools. Back again. My heart, my lungs, the whiteness of my ribcage.
Some blood squirts up and onto your hand that holds the scalpel. I realize I may have gone too far. Cut too deep. Fuck, I knew it.
I am staring at you, surgeon. Do you see me? My unrelenting gaze. Your eyes fail to meet mine.
I think that's tunnel vision setting in. It's dark and all I can see is you, surgeon. Where is your coat, surgeon? You are my surgeon, but are you a surgeon? Have I made a mistake, surgeon? Look at that bloody mess of a bonesaw. My tool of choice to create this mess. What is what I hope is a hint of realization creeps across your face. You put the scalpel down and I watch. Slow motion now. The clink of metal on metal as you release if from your fingers and hits teh table is deafening.
And I see them. A glorious shimmer of silver. Twin blades placed together with a single bolt. A neandrethalic concoction of a tool, but useful. It uses fewer fingers and less effort to use them than to use those stitches you hold in the other hand. Then, I realize. Maybe the lights are dimmer, or maybe it's the loss of blood, or maybe it's the blight light of a thousand spotlights in my face. I realize how easy undoing any potential stitches would be. A quick snip is all it would take and my bloody heart, lungs, stomach, intestines would all be exposed again. We all know that wounds take twice as long to heal once they've been reopened, or infected, or whatever. Fuck. I can't help thinking to myself. Why would those be there? Fuck. Fuck fuckfuckfuck. One word encompases my entire vocabulary as you straighten back up.
Blood on the scalpel that squirted out of me drips to the table and you wipe your hand on your pants. You don't seem to mind the stain it will surely create. Quick! Where's your bleach?! my thoughts demand of you. But no expression or movement. So stoic, surgeon. Are you frowning? Smiling? I can't tell. Maybe you're smiling. Maybe I've forgotten what that looks like. You haven't bent your arm to lower the hand holding all those stitches yet, surgeon.
God, those fucking lights are bright. How about some mood lighting, surgeon? How about that? Your face answers my question. Nobody dies of self-infliced wounds in a comfortable, romantic, the-food-is-shit-but-you're-paying-for-the-real-estate-and-the-fucking-visually-orgasmic-aesthetics restaurant setting.
I did this. I know. I wanted this. I know. Call me crazy. Look at me. I must be delerious. Must be the loss of blood. I'll never understand why they say, "I wear my heart on my sleeve." Isn't it much worse to bonesaw your own chest open and feel the excruciating cracking of your ribs as they're pulled apart? Just leave your heart in your fucking chest. You've done enough. Don't you think people will see? It's right there. My heart. IN MY CHEST. Beating for you. Burning, burning passion. The true object of desire. I've cut myfuckingself open so you can see, surgeon. DON'T YOU SEE?? Come, run your fingers against the white bone of my chest. Fragile, weak, human bone. Cut perfectly by cold, whirring metal. Be careful, the edges are sharp. You wouldn't want to cut yourself. You do not fear the sight of blood, save for your own. I know this, surgeon. I know your fear. But your blood is hot. It burns your veins and scalds your heart. The warmth you exude, I can feel it. The polar opposite of this shiny metal table you have so courteously laid me upon.
Oh, table of choices. Table of fears, wants, desires, passions. Table of love. How ironic you are, table. Oh, here I go, talking to a table. Typical dying man behavior. Fuck me. Delerious. Inanimate object animation. I digress, table. How ironic you are. You are so cold and you give me no comfort, and yet you hold me here in my goddamn Limbo. A perfect friend, huh? Boy, have I had my share of those. You, table, are the friend who never calls, but when I call you respond. But that's as far as it goes. Our friendship will not develop, table. But that is neither here nor there, table. The surgeon here. Oh, yes, me and the surgeon. There is a choice that can be made here, table.
Oh, stoic surgeon. Oh, thoughtless surgeon, how pensive you are. Drip. Squirt. Drip. Drip. Seconds, minutes, hours, days, YEARS. I can't tell the difference. It is an eternity that I have been here. Maybe only a few seconds.
It's really quite strange if you think about it. Here I am, surgeon. You staring at me. You've started at me before, of course. I hadn't done this marvelous bit of handiwork on myself then, however. Here are my insides now. Do you like it? I hope you do. Of course, you only see what you see. The pain means nothing to you. The pain of the crevass in my chest I've created. That is mine. My own. What you see couldn't do justice to explain how I feel. Strange how thoughts are more powerful inside. I'm doing my best to show you my insides. Metaphors and reality converge in my chest. Converge in this grotesque and beautiful situation we find ourselves in. Remember, sugeon. Metaphor. A metaphor is a metaphor, where a simile is a simile. We ARE a metaphor, dearest surgeon.
I laugh. Did I? Could you hear it? Oh, things make so much sense on this freezing table. Surely, you see. Surely, you se that. My lungs spasm in my laughter and blood hits your shirt from the vein I cut. Or artery. Whateverthefuck. It doesn't matter now. All that matters is you, surgeon. All that matters is your next step, surgeon. I can see you leaning towards your decision, surgeon. Will you choose? I'm lying here bleeding my blood for you, dying for you, surgeon. Only you. My surgeon. The choice is yours. The damage is done. The cool air in my open chest is mine. I won't even watch to see if you reach for those shiny scissors, either. I'll close my eyes here. Maybe take some of the pressure off of you.
There.
Better?
Okay.
A prick and I'm spinning. Plummeting into blackness. What have you done, surgeon?
H e ll o?......... h el....o.?
s..r.. ge.. o... n..........
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