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.