What are you?

The surgical tray waits

beneath the white light, 

silver-lined with lap pads,

caps and gloves.

Everything in its place.

The gown pulls tight 

around my shoulders.

The room is quiet,

only the autoclave–

hissing beside the door.

The 10 blade waits 

against my thumb,

cold, clean, critical. 

While the sharps bin

sits open. 

I scalpeled into her–

Cutting her sleek skin

past the stories

past the places 

Past the fake

she let everyone see.

I scalpeled deeper–

Through every answer.

Through every “I’m fine”

until the truth started 

to shine through.

The sutures wait.

The thread waits.

I wait. 

Some truths do not hold

just because they are 

stitched together.