What is contained within this flesh?
This torso, stacked on legs, this head
stacked on that, these satellites, my hands,
moons which control the ebb and flow of my purpose.
All bound together as if at random,
without regard to proportion;
or maybe as a farce.
It is I, locked inside, knocking
on all the walls of my body,
trying to smash this exoskeleton,
to find my new form.