I am used to being treated so
not having to don the awkward
weight of a jewel-crusted crown
convey to you my color
directing your eyes to mine
violently grasping, ocular assail
you cross off my name in M.A.S.H.
push me to a hidden place
where i die, resurrect, die
wrapped tightly in gauze
flattening my protrusions, my real parts
mend to the parameters of your sarcophagus
affixing my ableness, your molded mummy
who rises and says goodbye
and means it thoroughly.