Putrid flesh, stitched up and foreign skin,
I am the one made out of bits and pieces of many,
because I had no skin of my own once,
no identity, only a name, a number,
an outward face,
I am a failed project,
Even though I took so long to rebuild myself I'm still broken.
The demons inside control the strings to my thoughts, my actions, the demons outside throw everything good I have done away and call me useless, another empty stomach crying for food, another sick puppy that can't take care of itself.
When will I ever be free?
The little crow.