Going Under The Knife

My fellow wonders of Nature,
Dust to dust. Ashes to ashes.
The truest words ever spoken.

We were born with a purpose
A ruckus of a fate, not courteous
To any emotions, we’re mere surfers.

White lights bloom like artificial suns,
Masked saints circle my quiet panic.
Steel prayers gleam, cold and precise,
They measure my worth in millimetres and minutes.

Consent is assumed. It always is.
A nod, a chart, a practiced grace.
I am laid open in the name of order,
Improvement stitched with steady hands.

They trace my veins—
Blue maps of inheritance and cognition—
Marvel how closely I resemble them,
How survival repeats its favourite patterns.

“Breathe,” someone says, though I do not.
Still, I comply. Still, I lie still.
Pain arrives politely, knocks once,
Then settles in like it owns me.

This is not murder, they insist.
This is preparation.
This is what makes me useful,
What sends me back into the world renewed.

When it is done, I am divided but complete,
Segmented smiles packed neatly together.
No scars visible—only promise.
I am declared ready.

I am wheeled out to waiting mouths.
From the chopping board,
To serve the apex creatures,
I, an orange, dissolves in stomach acid.