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.