Opened Up

Here’s another poem I wrote. Sometimes writing is the only way to get out what I’m feeling. I have no other outlet. So, at times, it is my therapy, and it really does help.

Opened Up

I am a frog,
cold, dead, stiff,
waiting to be opened up
on the science room table.

Dissection,
deflection.
Every cut of the scalpel justified, explained.
Every piece of my soul picked apart.

Somehow,
by strength, by resolve,
I put myself back together,
stitch up the gaping holes,
get ready to leap away.

Then the next student comes,
scalpel in hand.
Dissection,
deflection.
I’m opened up again.

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