Cadaver

The white sheet whispers as it's drawn away,
revealing secrets of a life's decay.
Not flesh alone, but spirit laid bare,
for prying eyes, and whispers in the air.
 
Each question, scalpel-sharp, begins to slice,
not at the skin, but deeper, something dark.
"Why this?" they probe, "and what if that had been?"
A cruel dissection of what might be left of me.
 
Accusations, like formaldehyde's harsh sting,
preserve the pain, the shame the whispers bring.
"A careless heart," they murmur, heads all bowed,
while judgment echoes in the silent shroud.
 
No gentle touch, no reverence remains,
just cold inquiry, fueling burning pains.
Each organ scrutinized, each flaw opened wide,
the story of a life, so vilified.
 
My past, a roadmap, traced with trembling hand,
each misstep magnified, a barren land.
No solace found, no comfort can I claim,
just echoes of their scorn, my lasting shame.
 
And though I lie here, still, cold and numb,
their voices linger, 'til my senses come
Alive again, to feel them cutting deep,
the judgment whispered while I try to sleep.
 
This cold table, my final resting place,
becomes a stage for their relentless chase.
They pick apart the pieces I have left,
and rob me even of a peaceful death.