Dotted lines. 

Surgery, hospital scent, blinding lights

Shut your eyes, real real tight 

Cold cold metal against warm throbbing life

Bite your lips hard, it’s a scalpel not a knife 
Dotted lines run the length of you

They shift, as they cut, what a hard thing to do 

Years later, still on the table, you are reduced.

Still the lines shift, oblivious to you.
Why get on the table 

Why lay stark naked 

Why let the dotted lines desecrate what’s sacred 

They’ll shift, you’ll lay wide awake 

Dreading the scalpel each time; but perfection is at stake  

So, you shut your eyes real real tight

Bite your lips hard

And let the scalpel in plain sight

Cut you, as the lines shift, it’s a perfect postcard. 

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