Preserving the Human Condition

This is a dissection of my desire to be an organ donor.

The naked human body is cold to the touch;
After a cold shower, the pale hues brush
Against the winter air,
And coats itself in formaldehyde to trace the veins turning gray.
The blue under my eyes isn't from tears that I bear,
But a lack of warm blood flushing through my cheeks today.
My heart stopped. It stopped a long time ago.
It doesn't beat for them anymore; it has nowhere to go.
Throw it away, it is contracted anyways.

The human consciousness is a confusing item to examine.
It is never guaranteed how it will react to certain stimuli,
As every individual specimen reacts uniquely to the famine
Of life; there are trends, but nothing quite one hundred percent.
It is easy to assume that a common response to something
Deemed "fear inducing" will result in an active and animated
Behavioural response from the consciousness, yet that is not always
The case. Some find it fascinating, to the point
Where they even approach the stimuli in awe and wonder.
That is obviously a distinctly different reaction
To what you could consider to be "scared."
Not everyone is the same; some are outright unpredictable,
And unpredictability is not scientifically quantifiable.
I want to be scientifically quantifiable.

The scalpels pierce my body with no regard for beauty.
The doctor is no artist; he does not dream, he performs a duty.
The temporary cleaning worker is a mother of two
Who gave up her dreams a long time ago,
She looks through the window mourning at the work of this amateur
As he removes my lungs, my liver, every artery�"a signature
Of gore. He stitches back my wound with wires of the least
Complimentary colors. Even at that, we are not granted dignity.
The world is bleak and will remain bleak; the beast
Of chimney smoke continues to rupture our lungs with toxicity.
Heaven is a quiet nihilism.

I no longer bare my father's nose,
nor my mother's eyes,
My sister carries the weight remaining in her comforting sighs.
Her sound isn't enough as she holds my empty, blood-drained heart.
She curses out to the world as we were torn apart.
When the pool is no longer frozen,
When the birds start drinking from it at night again,
The path forward is stagnant still�"the life I had chosen.
And so is the payload being sent to the truck in the rain.

Author's Note

My first time writing something so dense. I tried to implement a prose-structure in certain parts. The fragmentation of the line breaks was done to visualise the human body getting stitched back together.