I have always hated the touch of a doctor,
but you are my exception to that rule.
I am sitting on your examining table, yet again.
Your hands are cold as rain when they examine me;
fingers flow down over my body- impersonal yet intimate.
You have pianist, or if you prefer, surgeon fingers.
Your hypnotic eyes drew me in, but your hands sealed my fate.
You inform me calmly, that you need to remove
a lung. I suspect it's for your own reasons-
most likely perverse, but it might be heroric.
I'll do anything for an examination.
Your touch is a narcotic.
I nod my head- my consent with my
signature signed, and I breathe in
that nitrous oxide- slip under.
This won't hurt a bit; I'm here, my
sweet little Rabbit.
The surgery room swims away and turns grey.
How many nurses have
you fucked against your desk?
(I'm not that special, yet I will
let you harvest all my organs.)