An electric connection,
Between my mind,
And my fingers.

I moved to wash my hands,
As the water froze fresh from the faucet,
My hands began to spark and fry.

Now I have frost burn,
In my electric skin,
From washing my hands in Michael's kitchen.

Now I'm wishing,
I never needed to make solid soup,
I could've stayed wet,
Contrary enough for my body's technology.