My mother tells me I am smart like Frankenstein,
but these days, I resemble his homemade monster.
All shock, all scars, all spliced up;
stitched back together with my own hands.

Sometimes, I think she’s right about me.
I feel like I am made of different people’s parts,
like nothing inside me fits together anymore.

It makes me wonder about Frankenstein’s monster;
if he felt anything about all that patchwork.
If he dreamt of taking himself apart as well,
trying to rearrange his mismatched pieces.