Visions of Victor Frankenstein
stalking and hunting me through
bitter snows and
plague my waking and sleeping hours.
Pried-open eyes watch my creator
burn carefully harvested organs
required to recreate myself –
reducing desperation into
tumbling towards the smoldering scrapheap of Hell.
Desire to defend my worth
against His knife-like words
their way through cells and sinew –
demonstrating such a body will prove
to the world around me.
Warnings from His sharpened tongue
strike my eardrums –
reciting recurring traits of
previous, failed experiments like me:
on syringes of toxic substances –
awakening to sickening acts
by their own hand or mouth.
But shall I be led to believe potential
give others the right to
prematurely banish me, or
bury me, forgotten,
beneath the frigid, unforgiving earth?
Hack axes against my foundation?
Throw stones through shattered bones?
Relentlessly, He ignores my
reformations to my body’s blueprints
to be seen as something far greater:
a safe, separate model of Man
frantically erasing its
until no trace remains.
He shakes his head at the
alienated disturbance before Him –
neither resembling Adam’s seed
nor the egg of Eve:
my biblical inaccuracies enough to justify
propelled my way –
how a lazily angled mirror shall reveal
the true face of a monster,
rushing reckless weaponry
straight for His own rotted heart.
Reference: Shelley, M., 1818. Frankenstein.
Jay Best is a member of the LGBTQIA+ community currently completing a BA in Creative Writing and Interactive Design. They are an avid fiction and poetry writer who enjoys reading, gaming, and photography in their free time, with future plans surrounding publication, cinematography, and video game development.