They've trapped me in an identity I don't want.
I must tear my flesh in front of them
to show how much I hate it.
Until the cash machines come out of the woodwork
and chirp like marionettes.
Before the moon of blood makes its ninth circuit.
Shitting from my ears to the sides of a plastic mouth.
Convincing them I want it, a glorious and heated social being,
A cock-bitch with no leash on his soul,
another superior product.
An important messenger from self-inflicted hells,
his own naked secretary.
Until the mirrors shrink to mica flakes
and turn on long delicate wires.
Before they've lashed onto me
with their eyes that claw shapeliness.
Shitting from my pores
on the sheen of an enemy's front deck,
stunned in front of the townsfolk
with a killer's visage.
Showing them I need it, this net of empty sights,
this caged atlas wheeling aisles covered in bubble wrap.
In defiance of my own life and happiness,
in the hope they'll let me borrow their tools
to chisel away this face
their hands in the dark have helped me to see.