#surgerical

I just really like this photo from game this weekend. 

Section, resection, abscission, enucleation, that incision stapled on your sister’s forehead who smacked into the wall so hard the house shook, when your mother screams as doctors thumbed at lumped masses clinging onto her mammas like stillborns. Surgery was the mirror that bore a nude image of a razor digging deep on the cusp of your breast, unsoiled in spilling blood and planted with fat silicone seeds. Surgery was your boyfriend who told you he wanted to be a pathologist first, with a fever glimmered hot in his eyes, staring at your chest shiny and new with unopened bubble-wrap. Riding the ferris wheel, it was your jaw-clenched tight, wide-eyed and afraid to kiss drunk. Googling the train’s schematic, it was the fear of warmth resonating from twenty-four: air compressor, number seven: cab heater, everything uncommonly, yet humanly, wrong. Like, the time when your boyfriend told you he took his last ex to Berlin, too old to earn the vintage charm of lovers; like the old German building made out the dotted lines of palms, deserving to be kissed for luck harder. Hardest like boiling salt water scalding virgin skin, not to heal but squeeze forks to ease this pain, not to relish but scoop fresh grapes your boyfriend sent bidden in your thighs when he told you. This was it. Sucking a sharp breath as you lay on the operating table, while doctors held up their scalpels and cancer in offering, a seed finally thrusted forth into a bloom collecting pollen.

I always think of George