No safe incision

I want my wounds removed surgically—

no theatre, no witnesses,

just the clean arrogance of a blade

that believes it knows what it’s doing.

Because when I cut myself open for them,

the knife grows a conscience,

twists its mouth inward,

finds fresh country

that never asked to be discovered.

The brain grips my wrist and says stop—

not from mercy,

but because it knows the truth:

they are constitutionally unable

to feel what they extract.

Blood, to them, is an argument.

A red underline.

Something to footnote

with words like weakness, drama, proof.

A body emptied of breath

would not mean surrender.

It would be filed as cowardice,

pinned like a specimen

under their bright, careless lights.

I was never enough—

because somewhere a better sufferer exists,

chewing glass without a sound.

Pain is a contest they invented

and silence is how you win.

When I asked for safety, for slowness,

they called it indolence.

Even when my body raised its hand.

Even when it spoke in exact sentences.

Even when I learned

to call that language a lie.

They outsource my failure

with divine efficiency.

To fate.

To others.

To anything that isn’t a mirror.

They are Gods—

immaculate, unanswerable.

Gods do not bleed.

Gods do not revise.

I passed their tests as a child.

Obedience wore a gold star then.

When it cracked,

I was exiled—

renamed “not trying hard enough.”

At work, I am told I am too quiet.

At home, too sharp.

Too much air.

Too many questions.

There is no correct shape of survival here.

No safe incision.