My flesh laid out a scheme for me
Into which my fractured bakelight bones
Do not fit comfortably.

My eyes are peach pits desiccated
And spitting tears of slime and mold
Onto desert hands whence life has vacated.

My mouth is a graveyard tasting of decay:
Sticky bittersweet coating teeth and tongue
Morbidly resisting attempts to brush away.

My feet are burlap bags of broken glass
Stumbling, slicing, and grinding
Their way in circles over yellowed grass.

My body is a metal worm
Stimulated but unfeeling
Waiting for science to confirm.