Raw ★★★★½

Raw emits the same mood as the cow heart dissection in my 12th grade human anatomy class:

staring at the wet mound of pale red flesh soak through the brown paper towel, i thought, "this is probably the only time you will ever touch a cow heart in your life,” in blinking neon letters. “you are not good at math and science. you will never pursue this as a career. this is it.”

my lab partner was an actual, signed male model (?!), and he sat to my left, pretending to be glued to his phone because he didn't want to admit that he was too squeamish to participate. this meant that i had -- nay, GOT -- to dissect the heart all by myself.

and when my razor cut through that ropy muscle of the aortic valve, oh god, i loved it, and i hated that i loved it. when my gloved fingers probed the chordae tendinae, quite literally tugging this dead cow's heartstrings, oh god, i could've cried. when it was over, i pulled the rubber gloves off my sweaty hands and tossed them in the overflowing trash, pausing to stare at the pile in the bin -- rubber gloves and human sweat and cow viscera that could've been blackberry jam, if not for the tell-tale tang of formaldehyde. every primal instinct in me screamed that i should see fear and disease and death in blood, but somehow, on an even more ancient impulse, i saw beauty.

that's the best way i can describe what Raw feels like.

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