The long-echoing hallways
That hide behind the un-numbered doors
Lining the corridors of your eyes.
Your eyes, which used to be my eyes.
Set in your face, which once was mine;
I pretend sometimes it still is
(only I am fooled).
Your body: that too was mine,
Before my white-bracelet stigmata.
If I am dead,
(And you all say I am)
Then who is writing these words?
For he would not, cannot.
And I, I have been erased,
Cancelled, burned from my skin,
Scrubbed by the machines of modern science.