Abox Of Parts

What is a start, to finish, sewing fingers on feet, toes on hands, heads in chests, her breasts i placed on her back, where they now grow, to belong. With a special test for her tounge, that i split in two. Now able to converse, out of both sides of her mouth, just as i drew. She tells me her story. it is not like the rest, out on a date, picked up in a bar. Slipped by a hand, that came out of the dark, to park that pill, inside her glass of beer. Her pinks, are a lastly bled, mutated horrible sled, pulling dread, as i search for her eyes, lost out of insular colors. She never stops talking, about what she will do, when i open her mind, and sew shut her oven, and leave her to squander her dime.