I am a patchwork stitchery of Frankenstein skin, adorned by the bits and bobs of society,

Stretched taut over a hollow, glass egg, that, if I should fall, might shatter

Revealing to the world my tears.

Now that hollowness sits inside me however, an emptiness that, no matter what fills it,

Is incomplete.

Yearning and turning, it moans that I fill it, crying out in starvation and screaming in confusion

Yet I cannot.

As I pour the liquid in, it drains away, food crumbles to ash,

Tableware to rust.

I am at the behest of a mad puppeteer, jerkily pulling my strings,

Smile here, wave there, hold your head up high,

And never, never let them see you cry.