My savage hands with which beauties unfold
Are monstrosities of nature I’m told
To touch, to feel, to hold without remorse
Were the feelings that led me down this course
With no sensations, sharp edges, cold steel
The pain from the solitude is much too real
For I have known no other way to live
Please come near me, my love is all I give







Look up to the lonely house on the hill
Which many have said to be the haunted
Place of which many souls from the past dwell
They walk by, they peek in, they laugh, they judge
I overhear their comments and stories—







Horror, bloodshed and truly gruesome things


All lies—each story worse than the next one


The newspapers tell me of much worse things,
Created by these normal-looking hands
Their hands are no different than mine are
Both equally capable to destroy.
Both equally capable to rebuild.





My hands are just as unique and useful
In their own beautiful, enchanting way
How dare they insult my wondrous, fine hands?
I would detest being plain as they are
Like a clone replicated on repeat





I will continue to endlessly wait
Until love and reason have humbled them
To see, in the end, I am as they are
I see, I hear, I feel, I love—I’m real.