meathive

Doctors carve out constellations, stitch star maps into my skin, a web of scars, a path to take to find myself again. My scars are sewn of haunted stars, constellations but half-drawn; ghosts of star-fire whispering words that fade out with the dawn. They took my rib from me, ground it up, reformed it, turned it into Eve; made a girl with my own name: a girl they say is me. My fragile face now hers, our spirit splintered, she stands for nothing I once stood for. Deep scars fade before their meanings are deciphered; yet more maps unfold to take their place. Every new cut, every new stitch remakes me into myself. To secure my spine, they c