In the museum of hands and arms and moving bodies,
There is a door.
Beyond the smoke and fly paper and Cheshire grins.
Had I made it to the door.
Had I become just like them
My flesh torn raw and tendons burning
Against their acid, make-shift garb
Had I not held readings of poetry,
To garner their harrowing attention
As I sought to free myself of the Pupa
In gauzy tops and linen skirts did we dance as the criminally insane
To a waltz of unsung potential
Did I not willingly take the potions and laugh, as they laugh
Did I not willfully indoctrinate the freshest among us
Those fighting, frightened souls, eyes trained on the door.
The door.
How I see it now, a beacon and damnation
That I can never step outside it, now.