The scent is unmistakeable.
A trunk full of sallow skinsacks,
slowly draining fluid through pinhole
perforations, so compliant, so terrified.
An exquisite boxcutter facelift births a chloroform smile.
Ear to ear with crimson jubilance, don't even breathe.
Each gasp pulls slivers of rust from your lips,
floats them down to your lungs like paper,
each shaving of bone fails to grace the floor.
Were I not a respected surgeon,
I'd act on the urge to wallpaper the room with what's inside you

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