Past inferences widdle away flesh,
as If I was not human, but birch-wood.
I fear reverting back to a prison of planks.
Gepetto’s carvings reveal his desire for a child,
But I cannot help wanting to be someone else.
I want this carpenter
To pull me apart and make me into something creative.
Drain this blood from me, it is not real red human blood, but sweet, sticky sap.
Reduce my bones to sawdust
before putting me back together.
Plaster my scars with love,
Splinters of the wood of this forlorn creation.
My life story, with its marred passages and blemished pictures, are being drawn by his hands.
Strong , callused artist's with coarse
black hairs on them.
That lie of a life.
No one could ever get the story straight no matter how many times it has been edited, revised, read over, or contemplated.
