Because very few people are telepathic, he wears his memories on his flesh. Constantly reversing his immune system's work, he displays his wounds...his illness...his distortions to the world. It may cause you to look away, drag your curious youth to the nearest safe point; but to him it's beautiful. Not because he finds the grotesque: gorgeous or the filth: fine; but because it's sexy to survive. It's sexy to rise from the ashes...to surface alive from puddles of blood...to remain whole after being fractured and shattered. To him, the soul is only visible after the body's been broken.
Because very few people are aware of how often this happens, he scribbles the truth across his skin...runs it through his nostrils...stretches his lobes with it's weight. You call it distortion; he calls it commonplace. You call it warped; he suggests its reality. He recognizes the crow's feet along your young eyes. He decodes your stiff stride in your painful shoes. You call it privacy; he call it deception.
From his perspective, we are a society who have grown accustomed to being raped. We are a people who's comfortable with slavery. He witnesses us relaxing and adjusting to take it all in because resistance proves to be too inconveinant. He's the freak because he wears his shackles outwardly? He's the freak because his modifications testify a universal violation?
Little do we know, we look just as perverted to him.
We grin and bear it. We ask for more.
Who's the real monster?
