when Halloween comes early

i write an email

to the surgeon, telling him

that

i can't come

to the second visit for another

round

of medieval

torture.

of blood and pain,

of screams.

and tears.

i can't participate

in his little

shop of horrors anymore.

with cold instruments,

pointed

and made of steel

slid into my nasal passages,

millimeters

from my brain.

i can no longer enter

his little

well lit hell

and do it again.

so far no response.