I was dissected last night.
They needed to examine my heart.
As I am young they had to start the incision at my throat.
It was a long clean cut, reaching almost to my sex.
They put in their hands. Gently removed my heart. Lay it on my chest.
They took off their gloves and inspected the heart carefully.
I heard them whispering.
At first I thought they were reciting Persian love poems.
But I must have been mistaken.
Because they weren't Persian.
And they didn't love me.
Even though they were touching my exposed heart with their bare hands.
I knew they thought I was dead . . . but I was only sleeping.