Addicted to the Knife

My surgeries, my knives/they aren�t mutilation./They�re a solution. A solution/to the problem of living. Based off of Repo: The Genetic Opera. From the point-of-view of a Scalpel S**t.

 

Why do it?

 

It’s the erotic slice of the knife,

so sleek and seductive as it glides down,

separating the flesh from the muscle with such wondrous precision.

 

It’s the symphony caused by metal against metal.

A orchestra of voices mixing together through the fog of

that perfect pressure that climaxes into delicious pleasure.

 

It’s the antiseptic scent,

clinging to every air particle in the small room.

A scent that’s as sharp as the sting of the needle sewing new flesh together.

A scent as warm as a used scalpel.

 

 

It’s the cool leather of the operating table

against bare, artificially composed flesh.

 

All so addictive.

 

Why risk unfixable mutilation?

 

Living is the thing that mutilates us.

Wrinkles are a sign of troubles faced.

Fine lines are etched out of our sorrow,

skin burdened and sagged by humiliations.

 

My surgeries, my knives

they aren’t mutilation.

They’re a solution. A solution

to the problem of living.

 

Why go through the discomfort?

 

What discomfort?

There is no discomfort.

Not now.

Not anymore.

I feel nothing.

Nothing at all.

 

At one time there was such agony,

such horrible, throbbing where the knife had

carved out a new path towards that sublime perfection.

 

Tears would come to my eyes, dabbed away before

the make-up hiding the incisions

could smear like reputations over my constructed cheeks.

 

But now there are stronger drugs to take.

Drugs that can be found in the graves,

on the streets, stolen from those who are

defenseless. Pathetic.

 

Drugs that make the after-afflictions

fade like good intentions.

Fade like all life eventually will.

We all die, we all get taken to the grave one day.

The cure for that has yet to be found, hidden amongst the

dead that litter the edges of the city no doubt.

 

Is it addicting?

 

Addiction is a matter of perception.

Who’s to judge whether or not I get cut

far too much?

Who’s to f*****g judge what I choose to do

with my own skin, my own body,

My face…

Does it even f*****g matter?

At least I look good.

Author's Note

Repo: The Genetic Opera is an amazing movie. In the future there's an epidemic of organ failure. Because of this gentically made organs are created and loaned out. Surgery becomes the next fashion statement. I recommend everyone check it out.

Reviews

[R J Askew]

Hi, I came back to see what you have been up to. You must be nearly through your course now. The question is this: has it made you a better writer? I hope it has gone well.

[Michael X]

this is such a sadistic poem, its amazing and gripping and harrowing,
to tell and the fortune of the meaning draws the reader to a chilling ponder, of course the skill you've used to weave this togther
is respectable, awsome job Tabatha

[R J Askew]

'Skin burdened and sagged by humiliations' is the best line for me. I also like the edge throughout. I despise vanity surgery...but as the voice in the poem says 'Whose to f*****g judge' ... the last few lines also catch the bid of materialism where nothing matters but appearances. For millions and millions this is exactly how their lives are. Tragic. But hey! 'Whose to f*****g judge!'

[Jessica]

Wow. I think my skin is crawling. It's a sad statement of what the world is coming to, isn't it?
The last two lines hit me to the core.
Addiction is a matter of perception.
I swear, I'm not an alcoholic. Hear and said this way too many times myself personally.
I love how in the beginning the statements are deliberate, but by the end the words resound of angst and inner turmoil.
Fantastic...end of story.