Configuration by Tejal Doshi (15, India)*

[Content warning: body horror]

Pinned to this metal plank, stark white fabric scratching your skin,
your matchstick limbs are twitching like dying bugs.
Beep, beep, beeps the monitor machine. Beep, beep.
Scorpions are convulsing through your blood vessels.
You gaze/stare in fascination/disgust at your bulging body.

---

Your gray gooey abdomen is caving deep in — in — in --
Invading cells are jerking through your flesh.
Bloated. Infested.
There are doctors — doctors who say they want to fix you/
liars — liars poking through your body. With needles/fingers/needles.
They are jealous of your configuration and that is weird because
you’re a mel   func toning
                             maal..fucn ting
malfunctioning — machine — with steaming wires
lying on the bed, upside-down like the wiggling bugs that surround you.
Screws and nuts and stick fingers are pricking hard into your heart.
You giggle because it tickles. You sob because you’re so tired of it.
They’re trying to fix you. Hysterical. You laugh/scream. They stare.
These are people who want to help and make you better and
you know they’re genuine but they just remind you of how broken you are.
Uh—oh, you’re
                          t u m b l i n g.
                                                    “I’ll be
okay,” you gurgle, then tilt your head back into a nest of buzzing wasps.
And
            fragments
                                 of
                                       you
                                                 are
                                                               — ouch! --
                                    plummeting
                          into
          sleep/
death in disguise.

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