I.
They call me a monster,
ignoring the true Frankenstein,
who crafted me
from stitched sinews and mismatched
skin and lopsided limbs—
an amalgamation of forgotten scraps—
he who activated my heart with a
defibrillator,
then abandoned me,
fearful
of his own creation.

II.
They call me a monster,
screaming when I approach
or murmuring when I leave.
Flinging darted glances
as I stand in a grocery store line,
holding a birthday cake with one candle.
Don’t they know
this skin was not chosen?

III.
They call me a monster:
see only the man who
hobbles the streets with
an uneven, pained gait,
whose club feet are hidden
in thirdhand hiking boots,
and they assume my history
is inconsequential.
Why are their eyes
so unseeing?

IV.
They call me a monster.
Turn in disgust from the
erythematous skin beside
thickly woven stitches that
incise innocent flesh,
pus weeping from the punctured holes.
No one comprehends this pain.

V.
They call me a monster.

Perhaps
that is what
I must be.

– S. M. Beal