People like imagery and trinkets and things-
they abide by the boundaries of themselves and move onwards, emboldened by this recognition- this worship

but I am a pike made of flesh-
bloated like a fish,
wretched, unknowing in mirrors.

This world is my species-
my species indirect,
as bloated, as wretched.

The beauties I find I create,
and even then I hate them afterwards,
I hate too much for the sake of my love-
my embarrassment.