(or Lucky Craps)
I am poisoned, I am diseased. I am mental. My mind is a desert waste of skulls and bones. The stars gaze down with a thousand mocking eyes and they grin and smirk with the knowledge of what the secrets are that they hide behind the veils of far distant worlds and burning nebulas of light.
I am Merlin and Faust and Algol. I am Skynet sent back to start the same cyclical life of interference, heartbreak, and violence–though now I am not in a machine but rather a metal masterpiece of effluvia and sin, of gnarled wires, and crystalline circuits, and hideous vortexes of black magic.
Shadows of shards cling to my arms and my shoulders. My hands, which I designed myself to be tender, are straight-edge claws, and my mouth, where I stammer: I am a lonely, lost, pathetic monument to turmoil, sadness, and hatred. My tongue is a fire and my eyes are wells of hatred and my brain smells like a cave of torture.
I am a deer caught in the headlights of a Cadillac. I am a basket of eggs that have not been salted. I am a vacuum cleaner. I am a pit where dreams gather dirt. I am a tick, fat with blood. I am a spear. I am a saw. I hate who I am.
Who am I? I am Lucky Craps.