It feels soft, smooth, curves at the bust. But darling he's not a woman, and frankly she's not a man. And because of this, all it can be called, is it. They force it to the alter. Half man in a white gown. Awaiting is a blind being that they sculpt, until ready. They made a man, ready for bewedding Although the broad shouldered, sturdy being may appeal, It at times longs for something simular to itself in touch. Between is another, prepared the join the two. Something lacks. One and the other is all they knows. One or the other. Are you a dame or a brother?
They force a celebration. They gather to feast. It hides under the table. The white gown cloaks over, and finishes attached to its owner. It claws into the wood, as everyone eats. They stain the gown, with their bloody raw meat. But it makes no difference, as the suit is not mine. Yes it's nice, but it was meant for a different kind. It wants to one day, scratch though the wood. It's hands would creep, through the holes it conjured. As they ate, they would see the bitten, torn, and rotting flesh of hands. It would giggle, but no one else would laugh. Put down the lever, and push the pulsating button.
It's been dying to be touched. You think it will open the drain and let out the water, but rather it lets in the potter, who waits to sculpt who he thinks you deserve. Even while hiding under the table, the speak of the gown you let them stain is heard at a long steady pace. They work to wash and scrub the dirt, But the man in the middle forces their hands in clay. The water refuses to drain. The potter keeps showing up in its place. Can you really blame it from hiding?