When I die, they harvest my corneas. Donations for science.
I no longer need to see.
They harvest my heart. I never love.
Everyone I think loves me only betrays me in the end.
They harvest my liver, for what it's worth. It's worn out long before from the alcohol I consume.
They harvest my lungs.
But my lungs are long since useless from all the cannabis I smoke.
Harvest my skin. Veins.
Harvest my bones before the devil can turn them to dust.
But it's when they finally come for my soul that I find I can finally live.
Peter Henderson about 5 years ago
Love how the last line turns into a counterpoise for the story, marvelous work