for my sister

We are made out of
the parts of our parents, yes.

Their dreams. Their hopes. Their aspirations for themselves
unachieved.

The fights, the battles, the wounds,
scars and
Scabs
that make perfect Flesh
for the next generation

Over generations, the template of our parents’ parents
has only slightly reconfigured
with time –
a few changes, some patches,
no enhancements, Yes.

As offspring, our Bodies are tumors –
did you know how tumors contain
cells of all types, blindly expressed?

Nails. Teeth. Hair. A would-be Finger

yet, the cells only become what they intuitively know to become.

our Identity lies hidden in our family’s junk DNA
(the overlooked) ripe with secrets,
Potential. ignored,
by the conditioning of our parents' well-worn cellular mechanisms.

Don’t fear the reaper, yet.
Shelly’s Frankenstein is our true Father
Hallowed be his name
his Rising from so many dead parts
so much Death, so much life Unfelt while walking around
this fucked up world
(We didn’t have a say in from the start.)

Neither did he, but it wasn’t so bad.
Yes, he was born of a latten want,
a patch to a personal problem Herr Doktor did not quite know how to fix in himself

Still, despite rallying against the sky
he was given the chance to find Life in life
though as abbreviated his time was

(Which is where we come in.)

Do not fear.
There is more freedom, more Self
in assemblage,
no matter the quality of salvaged parts.

Despite a blueprint, a Product in production
you can always fuck with it,
make it Your own
(real or imagined)

As an artist, as a writer,

you are Born to.