my hands tremble. i am still an embryo. i have the mouth of an old man.
a red eye sinks into the horizon, staring. unflinching, i stare back.
my feet feel rubber as i walk the soles may fall off a face is disassembled in a very scientific manner
a hand, independent of its body, clutches a spear. it is about to **** a fish. the killing is not the point; the ability to **** is the point. it is power and masculinity, picasso reminds us. i wouldn't know. i haven't been born yet.
i crawl across the room numbly, i feel my way into the dark.
a crack in the sky appears, and a nightmare reaches down it takes shape as a grinning soul.
it has no body. maybe it's my body. i am but the sum of my parts.