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My eyes see nothing. My hands hold the arrow which pierces my heel. This is my body, holy and pure as a marble obelisk, given to you.
I fear my doctor as you would an archangel descended from heaven to pass judgement. To recreate ones self, to ones own wants and needs, in ones own image, is to experience Godliness. To be recreated by another mans hand, to their liking, with all the brutality of steel plates screwed to a skull and razor sharp scalpels splitting vocal chords, is to know hell before death. I hope there’s a disco ball in my operating room. I hope that my morgue slab is a mirror.