Curate, connect, and discover
There are hands on my hips and I dread where they might go; cold and calloused and full of intent.
They inch up instead along my ribs; crawling and scraping against my skin.
Under my sternum they begin to dig; slicing deep with sharpened nails.
They stab and burrow deep in my chest; hands pressed in prayer barely brush my heart.
They snap my bones when they pull apart; prying me open to hungry eyes.
Yet still, I beat for their entertainment; exposed and bleeding and no longer me.