Construct

  It is louder some days than others. Sometimes it resonates in my chest cavity, sound waves ricocheting against my splayed ribs. But today I feel it in my skull. The grinding churn of organic machinery and snarling flesh. Pitiful, anathemic desperation. I would convulse if I could, but I don't have any muscles left with which to do so. Those were the first to be taken. Lovingly stripped from my bones, I still feel them sometimes. Strange twitching things, they looked grey under the flourescent bulbs that burnt my eyes to dying embers.

  Today's technology is a marvel. Someday I will become one with steel and silicone. Ossic tissue and supramolecular matricies will collapse into ferrous sludge and mangled sinew, oxidized by months of contact with an unfiltered atmosphere. I, however, will remain in my purest form, a snare of neuromechanics soaked in formaldehyde then transferred to The Garden. Never again shall I feel the sensation of pain, nor shall I ever be alone again. I will be one with them all. Peace at last in amalgam sacrosanct.

  Magpie steel picks at my remaining conglomeration.