I should donate all of my organs. When I die, I want every part of me to go to someone else. My mom might want my arms and legs — those limbs used to be her favorites. My dad should take my head, just the skull though, not the brain. I still remember how his hand would flick my forehead, the sting vivid and unforgettable.
My lungs? They belong with my friends. Most of them are smokers; they’ll need fresh pairs eventually. They always have packs of cigarettes tucked away. One of them is probably snooping around for a smoke, even when they promised themselves a break during sports matches.
But my chest — I want to throw it into a fire. No one should have it. I don’t want to donate this particular organ, I don’t think you can either. This mound of flesh has caused me enough pain. I’d rather it burn, useless to anyone else, as it’s always been to me.
The rest of my organs… they’re not perfect, but they work, sort of. My kidneys, for example, could handle quite a good amount of alcohol, I’d give them to a friend I’ve never met, someone who would recommend the best drinks. She’ll need new kidneys soon anyway, probably by the time I finish writing this.
I’ll give my heart to my cousin. My heart is functional, too functional perhaps. At times I wanted it to stop beating but it just kept going. Her heart struggles to beat, supported by machines. She has a little girl, I think she’s six now. My cousin needs my heart more than I do anyway.
I want to donate all of my organs now. I should donate all of my organs, they only rot inside my body. I can feel them dying all around me. They need a better place to nest them, they deserve a better body, a better mind. But they’re stuck. So, it’s only fair that I carve them out and hand them over. They were never mine to keep anyway.
