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One day when you’re good I’ll show you my Y
shaped scar cutting my chest, my clavicles,
sternum and heart all in half; that which lies
in me is now on display. My devils
make no attempt to be subtle. The art
of the cross stitch hurts but keeps my ugly
bosom together. My guts, pulled apart,
sleep on the dissection table. To be
as anatomically correct as this
is a pain. really. Man’s ideal monster
can’t be built, but we try. My Pygmalion
lover saw to that. Inside me the hiss
and whir of dark science makes me neither
god nor a monster; not even human.