He walks into the kitchen, cold tiles beneath,
A knife slides through skin, a quiet release.
Hands pull out organs, one by one,
Each packed in jars, the work never done.

He seals the lids, no words, no glance,
Placing them gently as if in trance.
The fridge hums softly, rows of flesh,
A silent grave, his final thresh.

A whisper slips between clenched teeth:
"As long as we feel pain, we're still alive,
As long as we feel pain, we're still alive."

Another day, another slice,
He cuts out pieces, no need for advice.
Liver, lungs, and heartstrings tight,
Tucked away in the dead of night.

The jars line up, cold and still,
Stored away with methodical will.
Fridge door shuts, the light goes dim,
His body grows hollow, limb by limb.

A whisper slips between clenched teeth:
"As long as we feel pain, we're still alive,
As long as we feel pain, we're still alive."

One final time, he stands in place,
No more to give, no more to trace.
His chest is empty, his eyes turned gray,
He locks the fridge, walks away.

The jars remain, slowly they rot,
Each filled with a part he long forgot.
Nothing left, no more to give,
The silence of a life once lived.

A whisper slips between clenched teeth:
"As long as we feel pain, we're still alive,
As long as we feel pain, we're still alive."