The self she wore has slipped away,
Now something deeper holds its sway.

Her ribs divide, a quiet parting,
Organs bloom, grotesque, yet starting
To form a shape that speaks, not pleads,
A language written in exposed needs.

They call it horror.
She calls it truth.
An offering made,
A second youth.

Her face remains serene, composed,
While all beneath has been transposed.
And in this shell, once torn apart,
She finds the core, her honest heart.