In the beginning was the word
Stretched across the frontier like a hide
Between creation and the void.
Vapid, she approaches, a wall of face powder
Held in place by skin, stretched so tight
A push of a pin might tear her apart,
Dilated pupils flashing inside a shell of cosmetic,
Countenance with the dreary glow of the brand.
You cannot tell if she is angry, absent, or just bored,
She is her own existence. She knows the words
That describe her are what really count,
Not her false biology,
And she knows that the search for ultimate meaning
Is pseudoscience, fake knowledge and empty,
With the boundary stretched either
Between something and something
Or her make-up and some unstable vacuum
Waiting to collapse, but she knows not which.
She knows not which. She positions herself on some edge
And a single prick explodes her into the world
To promulgate knowledge like the black hole.
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