I haven’t questioned my bones enough.  Laid bare where once flesh laid now stained red, dyed and clothed in a thin fabric of tethered tissue.  Though not quiet white, their cleanness peaks through this mess of decay.  Yet the little machines behind my eyes tell me, its still ok and in time I will get used to this twisted shape.  My twisted shape.  My forever body.  I do not know why they choose to preserve some parts of me and others they simply let die.  Ravaging through this urban ruin flooded with pain, I seek someone like me.  Someone who has not given into the machines questions, their thoughts, their new life.  I will not be shaken, nor taken to their paradise.  I know however it is a matter of time before my nerves rebel and I am a slave for life.

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