Patchwork Doll

They comment,
You'll fall apart one day,
and then laugh in my face
when I turn away from their ugly eyes.
I see myself in those irises;

I'm as ugly as their comments.

I lay my head on my brother's shoulder
when we return home later on.
He says,
You shouldn't listen to them.
They don't know you.

He doesn't know I don't listen to them;

I listen to myself.

I'm alone and all I can do
is stare at my skin.
Stitches weave back and forth
and all around like a twisting snake on a map.
Is any of this really my own?

Or am I only a patchwork doll?

I pull my knees to my chest and I curl up,
just staring at my hand.
It has three different tones of skin on it,
all laced together with neat, even threading.

Who would give someone this fate?

I feel; there obviously are nerves
under these fields of mis-matched color.
Was I born?
Or am I the result of a mad man's practice?

I can't remember.

But I no longer worry about my past.
I know now that I'm Marcus' bro
and I catch the caring looks Zidane throws me;
I'm not /that/ blind..

These men,
Marcus, Zidane, Baku, Cinna...
They are my family
and my future.

So what if I'm a patchwork doll?