Pinned on the table, godforsaken,
the soul bears each curious rift.
The delicate peeling of cellophane skin
a silver-clawed hand unwrapping its gift.
Poking and prodding, picking away
with exclamations of professional interest
at the layers I instinctively build each day:

“How can one be so socially regressed
as to squirm while I ritually vivisect?”