They’ve laid me out on the table, with my organs x-rayed and exposed.
They’ve taped my eyelids open, with a little camera trying to wriggle into my soul.
My tongue has been cut out, a simple dissection, they explain, we’ll sew it back on, they assure.
A foreign flag covers my naked body, the fabric cold and scaly, tightening across my skin, to label my complexion they said.
A masked man marks “brown”.
You’ve got it wrong, I wish to correct. My mom says it’s the color of cinnamon powdered over coffee with milk. How did you demote that to “brown”?
We need your veins, I feel them yanked. They never ask.
How valuable are you? The needle teases before pricking in, I see my blood traveling from my body to a glass test tube. At least something in me gets to travel without the need of much paperwork.
A woman takes a sniff.
“She doesn’t smell exceptional. We need to run more tests.”
Five years ago, a college admissions letter told me I had great potential. Come abroad, it lured, knowledge and opportunities, it smiled.
My blood is tossed away.