If you peel my skin back in an autopsy
Of my control,
You'll find me rotting in many places,
Especially the ones most put
Together and
Beautiful
On the outside—this atrophy
Of my composure
Is struggling to morph into a complex
Much greater than my original dissent
From sanity–in sanity I became known
To greater inconsistencies
Than illusion ever taught me;
And for a while I let them dissect my
Reasoning,
In the hopes they could tell me why I feel
The way I feel;
For if I knew, then my skin would be like diamonds:
Too hard to give under the pressure
Of the scalpel knife
And the insistence
Of the priest blessing my passing into the
Afterlife of my
Dreams;
I said goodbye to control,
And in doing so,
I was resurrected in a freedom not unlike
Death,
Except there's no funeral for those
Like me.