the good doctor

i lift a scalpel to the page once more
adjusting the words to uncover their aesthetic
cleaving the creation into prismatic sentences that may
be able to reflect a fragment of the beauty in my head
shaving pages into prepackaged portions
clipping conclusions and creating a cadence
never mind the gaping gash through the moral of the story

i remind myself, "you are not your story"
i pray this line between breaths
because i’ve killed my darlings and repurposed their body parts
"i’m the good doctor," i plead
though i’ve cross-stitched a macabre monument
a knitted network
of my darkest secrets
and put them on grotesque display
to be revered or reviled
loved or loathed
be that as it may