I was concocted in a Petri dish, whose brothers were amongst those handed out to patrons of a needle exchange. As a self-made puppet, I danced on my guitar strings until I broke my wrists. Every morning, I bandage the raw flesh on my chest in front of a mirror whose every shudder reverberates its eagerness to cascade over my head like New Year's Eve confetti. I see myself laid out on the decaying subway line I travel even in my sleep and envy those who would dive in front of it just to get to their destination, where traitors to their chemistry like me are served prepackaged in the spoiled meat aisle. Locusts have taken up their residence in my throat and despite the pesticides I drink, I still exhale their hatred.