even me; especially me
worth so much less as pounds of flesh
storyless, shapeless leather
put out to pasture in famine weather.

molting, shucking, jumping free
each reduction, reduced
further from the itchy wet skins of life
not bred for romance: bred for use.

shoulders bowing
too heavy to stop; not here not now
ribs showing
shave more off--faster, faster!
lighter with one less fucking arm
there's still damage to do, you bastards!

no lips, no grimace
no eyes, no tears
no heart: no love
no hate, no pain, no fears
limp til the last breath
on a sun-baked 
half-lungful of air
for filler: blood and plastor.

Parting words: 'No Gods, No Masters.'