What I Do Makes Me Human

Your body lays flat on a surgical table. Tool in hand, the operation starts. I peel the flesh off of your body. As my scalpel digs deeper and deeper, I feel less about you, more distant. Every little piece gives me an intake. After an entire day of this, all that's left it is your bones. Filled with an immense self loathing, I turn the knife on myself. Each inch of me is inspected and thrown aside. My perfections fall flat from the term. Deeper and deeper, I see through my own body, or of what remains. Would you look at that? Bare bones. Our skeletons lay next to each other on the table. Rotten to the core. We're perfect for each other.