I flay myself open. The scalpel draws a red line down my chest. Sharp metal like a zip. The skin tugged back. Look there, the red flesh of me. Sinew and meat. Glistening, shiny me. I lie opened. On display. Skin pinned back like the wings of a moth, like the grand curtain of a stage. The line of each perfect muscle. The shape of bone. The connections of cartilage. And you stare. And stare. Mouth turned down in concentration. Brow furrowed. Your gaze intense. You watch the dance of veins and ponder the pulse of a hidden, bruised heart. You cup your chin in your hand. You sigh, and you say, “This is not what I expected”.