I might have been something:
a physicist, a shaman, a healer,
a streetwalker.
Instead, I am broken,
created in your image.
A broken doll made by a twisted man,
criticism beating in your empty chest.
Your bile corkscrewed into my marrow,
from the moment I began my desperate crawl
away from you.
I could never get far enough.
Your craftsmanship was faulty.
I am left a nothing, a heap of broken parts,
never working, never feeling,
abandoned by my maker.
- Loveday Funck