I find myself unduly composed
in the most malignant moments—

some aberrant configuration
of Woman:

muscled, yet bony in artful places,
prone to drifting faceless
with nothing but a compass
and a distant star
to press it to.

Timid Michelangelo,
I did not mean to startle you
with my emergence—
an unholy, flaming virgin
under stone. But you,

and you alone,
can deconstruct me—
can cleave abruptly
this pitted carapace.

Ergo, I entreat
the hand of the creator
to greater good favor
and, unabridged, erase.