I overhear a plan to draw my blood,

as if I am some wild and stupid creature,

in hope of finding all that's unnatural

about me and my hairy face and skin.

Then they'll scrape off some cells

that give me shape, draw fluids

here and there, cut away shards of bone,

anything to know me the only way they can.

They say my cry is blood-curdling

and they're surprised the hunters took me

without a struggle, as if I am just

violence in beast-form, a killer without mercy.

So I'm chained to this table.

My mouth is gagged.

A guard stands by with an automatic weapon.

And the scientists pop in and out,

grinning like astronomers who've

discovered a new planet

though I've been here all the time

and only wanting to be left alone.

Once they figured I don't exist.

Now they're convinced I'm only too real.

Figment or puzzle, myth or inexplicable...

none of this is my fault.

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