BLOOD-SPATTERED COAT SYNDROME 

In a vision I see myself in white robes Doing an autopsy on my soul Surrounded by instruments, knives, probes As I lift my ghostly organs into their bowl I tear away at the shell which coated it Worn by years of hurt And the only difference as I cut bit by bit Is that there's no blood-spurt It's wrinkled, broken, lifeless, limp And easy to slice apart I grab the skin, I knead and crimp Make my way to my unholy heart The ribcage is snapped as I pull it back To find an easy route And I'm reminded of its fragility, with each wretched crack In search of this existential loot