Oversharing in Theatres

They have personal preference,

That's not something I knew, or

Wanted to. The disinfectant they use,

Chlorhexidine: a hot hot pink on an

Out cold body. Her white cold body.

Or they can use iodine: a murky,

Infected yellow on the cleanest,

99.99% barren, skin. If, and only if,

The patient has allergies, the option

That they are not allergic to, is chosen

Otherwise, it is dealers choice. This

Dealer wields silver stainless steel,

Stained with the rich burgundy which

Oozes, or the bright red which likes to

Spurt. Across the great wide blue, there are

Tides of endless sterile drapes that you,

Do Not Touch. Unless they bestow upon

You, the honour of deep green gloves,

Sterile gloves, You are scrubbed up now.

How does it feel? Celebrity. To a quiet

Crowd. Hopefully. If the anaesthetics are

Doing their job. That white thick milky

Fluid of silence allows the blood to flow,

Across green gloves, blue drapes, silver scalpel,

sickly sallow skin. Adorned with a

Colour. A colour of their choosing.

"We have both, which one?" The dealer

Looks at me. Across the blue. I look

Down at that pale fleshy island which

Erupts from the sea. I am its architect.

The tourniquet constrictor pales the

Skin. Blanks my canvas. I show my cards.

"My favourite colour is pink." We lock

Eyes. We are lit by raw unfiltered light,

Lanternless, Blanche, relentlessly visible.

Dealer looks back at me over a stained

Mask. It has tasted blood this day.

"Prep the gauze with Chloro." She

Is kissed pink, false blush on anaemic

pallor. Pink ready for Red. Green

Reaches for Silver across Blue, Drives

Silver through Pink through White

Through Skin through Meat through

Bone.

Our audience: exposed. Our island:

Mined. Mine. Decor to my choosing.

In exchange for a tiny part of me.

A fraction of vulnerability for the

Privilege of knowing you, inside and

Out.

My favourite colour is Pink.