The Flesh

If I were to peal back my flesh, what would it reveal?

Something alien that’s studied in humanity but struggles in practice?

Perhaps wires hold my limbs like a marionette, strung along by expectations and held in place by acceptability.

It could be gears and pistons grinding in unison beneath the surface, struggling to imitate life.

I think I’m a tin man in a skin suit - stiff, hollow, and desperately in need of fuel to move me or a heart to guide me.

But really all I’ve found is this crimson reminder of the finite, uncanny creature I don’t recognize anymore.