Pater Doctor,
before you peeled away
my outer skin
with a piece --
broken bottle jag,
I was uniform,
whole,
but now the skeleton
is exposed,
the neural infrastructure
lies open to air,
and the raw flesh
shows
marks of artificial creation.
When I dream,
I am a conglomeration
of your dreams;
should I be grateful
I never sleep?
Carrying my scars
on the outside,
I keep the beauty
of a watermelon moon
inside secrets.
Did you know
how the parts and the whole
would mingle and dissolve
in anguished rhapsody?
Search the fever pockets
of your mad memories
and tell me
if you intended
for me to wander
and wonder alone.
Monster.
.
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