Soon when you’re good I’ll show you my Y, gray
shaped scar that cut my chest and clavicles,

sternum and heart, all in half. That which lay
in me was once on display. My devils

made no attempt to be subtle. The art
of the cross-stitch hurt but kept my ugly

bosom together. My guts, pulled apart,
slept on the dissection table. To be

as anatomically correct as this
was a horror-show. Man’s ideal monster

can’t be built, but we try. My Pygmalion
lover saw to that. Listen to the hiss-

whir of dark science that made me neither
god nor demon. I’m not even human.