There is a blood-drenched lump on the operating table,

A warm, bleeding, pulsating muscle,

Layers of fleshy, sinewy, muscular material,

Like a scene from a horror movie.

The scalpel gleams, silver-white,

Reflecting the fluorescent light,

It slices throught the hot and bloody organ,

Like the teeth of a lioness into the flank of a deer,

The surgeon slips a gloved hand inside,

Extracts a small and glowing item,

Neon pink,

Like cheap Valentine's day blingy merchandise,

But warm and velvety, covulsively pulsing,

Tiny, a perfect gift-shop, stereotype heart,

The neon-pink glow is fading,

The strong pulses start to relent,

White-gloved man strikes it with a rubber-hammer,

It rips and silver blood pours out,

Love and soul all erased,

Like data from a wiped disc,

The limp, empty heart gives a final flutter,

Before it's tossed into a nearby bin,

It sighs and dies,

And the bleeding red lump on the operating table,

Is stitched up,

Sewn back in place,

The once-human girl will wake,

A medicated, loveless, Ms. Frankenstein.

The End

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