Sylvia

So, so, Herr Doktor. So, Herr Enemy. Am I to be your puppet, forever dancing on stethoscope strings? Splay me out on wax paper, like so much frigid meat. Poke and prod and never cure, scribble scripts with fervor; prescribe a pharmaceutical rainbow spread before my breakfast plate. I’ve grown to love that hospital smell, my perfume; my sickly rouge the powder from your Latex gloves. White coat lets you play God, my sanity in your forceps. Make your fine incisions, Herr Doktor. Slice me into manageable chunks.