I Opened Up My Body

I pulled all the painted buttons out of their buttonholes.
I stood in front of the mirror so that I could watch.
It hurt a little more than I expected.
I'd never tried to open up myself before.
I watched fingers tugging at my skin.
It slowly pulled apart from the rest of me.
Hanging lifeless at my sides, like an old, misshapen shirt.
I looked at where my heart should have been.
I could feel the familiar thumping when my hand touched my chest.
But what my fingers where touching was something else.
Not an organ, nothing like in the anatomy books.
I wondered if they had ever really opened up a person.
I saw in the mirror a glowing mass of swirling sawdust.
That's what it looked like.
It felt solid to the touch, although my fingers sensed the movement.
I looked to see if I could see my lungs.
They were barely visible.
Streamers of black with a few strings of turquoise, pulsating as I breathed in and out.
It was my stomach confused me.
I thought there would be a lot more to it.
But no, it was just a mass of shining light.
Strange that light can be a solid.
I wondered why the scientists and doctors had separated such a beautiful thing into organs.
I thought to look at my brain, but I hadn't unbuttoned my head.
They had said not to open yourself up too much.
They advised not to do so at all but I had not been able to resist.
I buttoned up my shell again.
The skin took a minute to readjust.
I looked in the mirror and seemed perfectly fine.
To my eyes, at least.