FREAKSHOW

Sometimes I feel like the silence before a scream.

A man in a white coat fused our veins—

Scalpel, laser—his assistant wiping his brow.

We emerged like one of Dr. Moreau’s beasts:

stitched and twitching,

snouts half-shaped, eyes too bright.

They beat us until we walked upright,

grunted greetings, mimicked them—

but inside, fur and fangs remained.

There were only two of us.

We didn’t know—

where my body ended,

where yours began.

I don’t know. But I have a knife—

lifted off a mess hall tray,

plastic, but sharp enough.

Its handle in my sweaty palm.

I can’t live this welded life.

Call me Frankenstein. You, Igor—

I’ll cut. You watch.

I flinch. You don't.

I’ll saw through the tendons; 

you keep the blood from my eyes.

I’ll free the beasts.

We’ll howl—

just not together.