Op Note VI
All hands on deck. Turn the music off. Keep the quiet austere formality of a state funeral. It’s a transplant. Everything needs to match. Name, record number, date of birth. Blood type. Don’t fuck it up. Stern serious faces for serious times. Whatever I take out of me and put into you is an act of faith. We’re both taking a risk. This warm throbbing gift of life might not fit. You have to protect yourself. It’s only natural. I don’t take rejection personally. Besides, I presumably need everything I have to make it through myself. Isn’t that right? Who am I to give anything away? It was never mine to begin with. But here we are. And there’s a time crunch. Douse myself in ice. Shock the cells into thinking they’re not dead. Until you bring them back to life. I've already picked out three spots where it could be placed inside you. My arms around your heart when it tries to skip a beat. In the enclave behind your eyes to know what you see just before you cast a smile at me. And in that empty slot that once housed the thing you gave away when you were young and dumb and self-loathing. You’ve always been hoping it would one day come back. It’s like a black hole you’re always on the verge of disappearing into. A negative pressure vortex straining to drag you under. I may not be exactly the thing that was lost. I’ll never be that. But I knew this was where I had to go. This was always it. Now I’m starting to settle in. I can feel your blood surging against my skin. I’m warming up. And I’m starting to feel that I fit.