Hinged

The chair went back with a hiss of air

until my heels were higher than my hair.

He moved the lamp, a blinding white,

and told me to open, and I did, in spite.

I saw my eyes in his plastic shield,

distorted and small, a harvest yield

of every fear I’d tried to hide

stuck in a mouth that was stretched too wide.

He didn't speak while he worked the pick,

just the sound of metal, cold and thick,

scraping against the hidden bone

while I lay there, hollow and alone.