I've discovered that you are made of paper mâché. Don't be alarmed, it's nothing we can't handle. If anything, I've already done some investigation into the matter. I believe you may find my findings are what you would anticipate, although I apologize for uncovering them without you. My curiosity ran rampant during your nightmares, and I couldn't bare to wake you from them.
You'll notice some duct tape on your chest, and I'll confess, I cracked you open like a piñata when I noticed something off. It was just your breathing, suddenly it sounded so soft and rattling. Every inhale shaking like a tin can in a storm. While we know I have no degree in medicine, I threw caution to the wind by this matter. For you I felt certain in my bleary bones I could assess and treat with ease.
I cut up your sternum with my good scissors, the clean ones I only allow you to use for the mail and nothing else. You tore open so clean and without a drop of blood, so I feared the absolute worst, but still I could hear your whistling tin breath assuring me of my task. Once fully open, I could see nothing but crinkle-cut newspaper confetti covering your organ thickly, but after a bit of brushing, things became clearer. Your lungs I found first, filled with struck matches all shaking about by your deep sleep. I expected those, and left them be as you do too.
Your heart I found second, and I laughed so loud when I did. It was a miniature sleeping bag, rolled up with a photo of you stapled to it. Not the you I know now, but the one you've told me about. He looked happy, the same face I see when I wake up...