Operation

If this isn’t a game, why am I planning my next move?

Why do you make me feel so cut open—Operation—
my insides on the table,
yours to touch, to buzz, to laugh around.

Part of me lies there, still.
The little girl, looking up at you,
begging for your approval, your reciprocation.

The other part sits beside you, watching.
Watching as you pick me apart.
Watching as my most vulnerable parts are put on display,
as you toy with my insides.

I want you to see the woman next to you.
The woman I’ve built, I’ve created, I’ve curated.
Not the girl who lays before you,
waiting to be put back together.