A Cosmic Taxidermy

They keep removing our bones

and rebuilding them weaker,

before sewing us together with dread.

At least our flesh remains the same,

so we can go on pretending

nothing has changed.

I wake up and recall the feeling

of my veins being drained, and hold it,

remember my skin hugging plaster

to resemble life, but feeling

the vacancy inside.

I was fed this delusion, took it willingly,

called it the human experience.”

They'll keep stripping us,

removing parts of us one by one.

I was not the first emptied

and we’re all far from the last.

We aren't quite that special

even if they tell us so

as they shove cotton down

our hungry, wanting throats.

If stardust is somewhere in there still

- a frequently regurgitated narrative,

though it does feel good to spit up -

it's heavily diluted,

and more like the dust they kicked up

than luster.

We'll continue to look like people

in the same way Jesus is a man among us,

but none of us will walk on water,

only sink, absorbing the salt

into our patchwork skin,

soft and penetrable by design.

B. A. Hutchison is a writer residing in Dayton, Ohio, US. Her work has been featured in First Lines Poetry Anthology and Jack Wild's Spring Anthology, among others in print and online. She can be found showcasing her work on Instagram @fromtheastralplane