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  • Writer's pictureKyx


stealing parts from a graveyard

tuition, enrichment class, music lessons

to fit onto a torso already scarred

smoothing over bumps and lesions

created desperately in a lab

we’re sliced up to fit the seams

so what if parents pick up the tab?

we’re choking on their dead dreams

stumbling in their backyards

struggling to stand on our feet

just to fall like a house of cards.

they dare call us "deadbeats"?

groaning, we pick our scabs,

doing our best to cope with our gifts,

how dare we be so mad

as to even hope for a kiss

all we wanted were bodies whole

instead we’re limbs splinched together

the parts are uneven and full of holes

but we’re the “ungrateful monsters”


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