I can't possibly yield one more ounce of myself
To the force of your scientific inquiry
And I cannot—should not—look into those black, burning,
Fathomless eyes of yours if I still
Would rather keep
My soul,
Though with every millisecond I spend nanometers away
From your gravity,
I think maybe it got lost somewhere in the procedures,
Routine I love you's,
And your dissecting way of prying into my heart
And mind,
My lab-rat self unaccustomed to anything like
The sort of care
You gave to discerning every bit of me, however irrelevant
To your original purpose—
So I have a hypothesis, and experience has a theory—
That if my soul was surgically removed along with my memories
And my flesh and bones,
You must have kept it with you,
Yes,
That must have been your goal all
Along.