His fingers trace the lines where I’ve sewn myself together
Bit by bit
Careful if not tenuous
Checking for approximation or infection
I’m not sure which
Checking to make sure I’ve talked to a professional
Instead of just wrapping my hands and biting down on a mouth guard
Walking laps in the halls to cure the anastomotic leak
He’s asking me what I want
as if I should know
As if the cards weren’t already dealt
I’m falling apart in his hands
And even as I show him I’m dying
He assures me I’m not
That 80 beats per minute is normal
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