The bright white light shines down on me as they peel back layers of skin, tissue that I loved to hide behind for these years. Their expressions are hidden behind starch white masks and large goggles.
My chest cavity is wide open, my heart lying out for them to see. They pick at it with tools, slice it with scalpels.
I want to protest, to scream at them for looking at me, for destroying my heart, but my hands are tied back and my throat is filled with a thick tube.
A fear covers me, blanketing my thoughts with "what ifs".
What if they leave my heart black and dead when they sew me back up?
What if they take too much? Cut too deep?
My skin is peeled back and my body is open, all is exposed to the waiting world, the things that were secret are standing under blaring white lights.
The thing that keeps me alive, and they are poking it, tearing it to shreds.
Then they will sew me up and deem be better because of it.
The scars aren't going to disappear, just be covered by clothes.
As if the way I dress is going to cover my disease, the disease I caught from them.