Pinocchio

Just fallen, I watched mercury weeping
from a fresh gash on my left knee,

rivulets seeping between the creases
in my pink skin, running freely

over my bare shin, kissing oxygen
and tapering till black and dry.

I hoped the wound would not expose white bone
but metal plates, smooth and gleaming.

In bed, I would push my fingers against
my belly, searching for motors,

cogs, gyros and aluminium pistons
hidden behind synthetic guts

and factory made innards: concrete proof
that I was not born a real boy.