Skin Deep

I lay open on this cold table waiting for all to examine me. It is as if my chest had been snagged on a hook attached to the doorway I entered through. I am something to admire; beautiful, a little intimidating, but ending there. All of you have the tools with which to dissect all that rests inside my chest, always open to you. I have nothing more to give past the humor and the smile. Inconsequential to you and everything you know are the tears I cry; I am the same as that you dissected five or more years ago – nothing new, nothing fresh. The surface glow is lost past the skin. My innards have yet to grow the stale stench that experience brings. It is no longer about the Heart, She is lost to whimsy and fanatical impulse – it is now about my mind and how little there is to give to someone who has lived longer. I am a little girl lying on the table, awaiting your examination. I will come out fresh, and untouched, because you are uninterested in what I bring to the room – past, of course, my smile.