I am a gash on the flesh of God,
And He is ever-healing.
I am a negative.
I am a lack, ever-lacking,
A groove gouged in the Upper Skin—
Shards of the vessels, a matted mass, and accretion of breathy dust—
I stand despite myself and athwart The Endless—
My skin—the lower skin—is senseless and strange.
The light aches in the awful halls of endless space.
My paws garbed in manleather,
Claws excised so long ago now—
—and yet I wake every morning covered in blood.