May we cry our prayers loud and let our petitions clamor rightly.

Rattle a bell and clang on a tin, for only the raucous can draw the attention of thy negligent story.

This story must be told. The story must be told.

The story must be told.

Sneeze one in me and make it count.

Can't take nothing except that which is sticky,

for I am too slim to juggle thy weighty excretions.

Before I regress into a half-boy with the mind of a sieve,

pray me a psalm true so I might be cleansed.

I am a surgeon, and thy home is a museum of the oddities I steal from the unconscious.

There are teeth in a piggy bank and scalps on a mannequin, and inside a mason jar is rotten Mary.

She was once a caring lady, but when the days turned short and the air it burned with mutagens,

she shrank like a sponge left in the sun.

She's still alive, you can tell when I shake the jar. Her eyes they peer,

and her lip it puckers, for nothing bothers the rotten, like the swishing of liquids through their

tiny holes. Look, but don't touch, and if ever she is missing from my collection, of prideful theft,

I will fill her jar anew with you, gentle Brandon.

Ha, don't forget, I have a wealth of jars and juices for days.

That was too eager for me, Sister Callista, and now my eyes are crying. Sometimes I wake up, and I can't remember my mother's name, and in that darkness, I am freed.

Do not fret and do not pity, for we all of us are lost,

orphaned and stricken with loss.

In each laugh and each hug,

...