Twisting the knife just right you perform your procedure.
Surgical sadist with a cleaver. The medical reaper, there’s not much they can teach ya.
Patients bleed out as you alter their features.
Cos deep down, you’re an artist.
Grooming bodies till they’re smooth like mannequin dollies, you like to take chances.
Feeling blood well up between your fingers, your subjects at times, blood deprived, are still alive.
You slice incisions slowly and feel around inside.
Organs move past your palm, slick with blood, you slip and slide.
How did they die? Did they cry?
Did they fight back, or be hit and submit?
You put them aside and move to a live subject.
She squirms in her cage, afraid.
Emotionally naked, like a newborn babe.
Eyes wide, they blaze with defiance, raw and brave.
Slowly laying out your tools seems wilfully cruel.
But you play it cool, and scratch the skin’s surface.
Feeling resistance, where it’s thin and your blade burns less.
Then make incisions.
Blows quick and precise, you slice fast.
With the perfect tool for every body part, you take no chance.
For this is no ‘death by a thousand cuts’ scenario, oh no.
With every blow you take your subject to new heights of painful bliss.
You adminster medical staples, each one a shameful kiss.
But importantly, she’s there of her own free will.
She needs no suicide pill and knows you’re not there to kill.
You’re dispensing exquisite torture.
Time and again she comes back to visit your sadistic fortress.
For she’s a true believer and helps nurture your talent.
Willingly, submitting free to your medical talons, as you draw blood by the chemical gallon.
Those surgical claws that probe her nerves till they’re virtually raw.
To the point where she upends and hits the merciful floor.
But it’s no personal chore, you remind yourself.
You’re performing a valued service and demand is high.
And at the end of the day there’s always more subjects waiting, ready to scream and cry.