i have drawn detailed renderings of the circumference of your ribcage, tracing the angle at which one would chisel, trying to figure how to best crack it open, only hoping to settle down into your lungs like so much smoke. 

how might i remove your soft organs. place them in jars, sealed until winter comes.

the last time i heard your heart it was beating its wings like a trapped bird. arteries like feathers. veins thin and precise as violin strings. i listen to your insides like a radio. you are animal. you are music. you are machine.