All of these questions bubbling up like/
Incessant bubbles in a boiling ***,/
That I don’t think want to be heard. I feel the/
Way you look at me, like I’m waiting to/
Break, come apart at the seams. Avoiding/
me with dull, effortless acts to conceal/
It. What I don’t understand, is why you forced me/
To be this way and then run away from/
It - imagineer of Frankenstein’s image/