My self identity was so many pieces
stitched together on your slab,
an almost person, cold and dead.
You meant nothing to me;
my heart lifeless in your eager hands.
You flipped the switch.
Some monsters are better left dead.
The spark of life flickered. You fled.
You couldn't face what you created.
Love beating within me was never your intention.
The only way to protect my resurrection of feeling
was to hide its beat behind corpse eyes;
I worked to control the killing urge
of my fingers, which itched to betray me
and summon their master, their maker,
even knowing that you would only flee
faster and farther from our grasp.
No matter the distance,
I can feel the waves of horror and hatred
at what you gave life to. The needle shakes in your hand.
The electric current, a lightning flash, burnt us both.
Undo the stitches. Throw the pieces back into the grave
you dug them from. Take back the life you inflicted on me.
Your revulsion only feeds the continued beating of my heart.
Find it here.
