Mama told me he’d try

to uncover my rusty insides—

smear them all over with a warlike grin,

regret it not, for I would be dead.

But those hazel eyes are soft;

those eyes don’t belong to a killer.

Is he?

_Divinity. _

I see the gaunt, grave-dug craters in

his cheeks—

fit for a tombstone—

the red veins pulsing in his eyes,

his skeletal complexion,

his beady, voracious stare.

And… yet…

I see his soul

through the muddled skin,

the timeworn clothes.

It’s lost, a reflection.

And through those

prismatic rays,

I see a baby.

(_The baby reaches for the light_.)

So, he is no killer.

He’s a boy like me—

what makes him so different?

Am I not the same?

…with the childhood

he never had?

…because despite it all,

we both lived.

Oh, Killer. They told me to hate you.

But I love you

As I love myself.

For in your breath,

I breathe, too.

He was raised to be a weapon,

but I see his hands

…mine are the same—

raw,

empty,

trembling

for the

stars.

(_We reach for the light._)