mime? what happened to your box?

They cut open
Spill their insides
Sacrifice their hearts when they feel the time has come
It sounds painful to me
But they don’t feel anything
It comes with practise
Practise which I don’t have
So it sounds painful to me
But there’s hope for them yet
When their cuts have turned black
When flies marvel their organs
When their heart can no longer be recognised
But is dubbed a mere lump of flesh
A clean hand will drive the rot back into its owner
Breathe in life, and guide them
But not always
Which is why I wonder?
Why does the average hand gravitate to the polished diamond?
The unpolished one is a diamond none the less
And I also wonder
What would happen to the mime?
What would happen if he shattered his glass box?
Would a piano fall down on him?
Would he die and have his insides spilled?
Would someone push them back in?
I don’t think I want to be a mime
I don’t want to risk shattering my glass box