Autopsy

I guess you're looking to play doctor, honey?
You're a bit too morbid for that.
You don't wanna fix a god damn thing;
just want to see where the blood comes from.
A couple of quick stitches you are content to watch break.
Ah, the blood is everywhere now.
I can smell the bitter iron-y;
can almost taste it on the tip of my tongue.

I'm your favourite little corpse,
mostly because you know that,
unlike all the live bodies you manage to handle,
you know that I'm the only one strapped to the gurney.
You know I'm never ever gonna run.
I'll just sit here with my wide doe eyes,
as if always almost surprised that
you haven't changed in the slightest.

Come on honey, dissect me.
The twisted insides aren't anything you haven't seen before.
No, instead it is something far worse;
they seem to be your safe place.
They take you home again when
all sense of hope and direction are lost.
So come on, I dare you:
tear apart my insides and find yourself in them.

Of course there are people who hang around
and clean up the mess and catastrophe
left in your contented, regal wake
after you're done playing operation.
Go wash your hands of the blood,
it's unbecoming of someone of our stature.
I know my role, but still...
What wouldn't I give to hold the scalpel for once?