The Cycle

To feed into those instincts, the ones many faces before yours fed into.

It's like feeling the warmth of the sun on your skin for the first time after a cold, long winter. 

Though, those many faces before yours are burnt, their skin cracks with every slurred word they blurt out. 

It's revolting.

Whenever they see you, they'll always mention how plush your skin is; that you look like porcelain. 

You brush your hand up against your cheek, wondering to yourself if it's salvageable.

Will I remain untainted by the breath of the instinct; going against a system so much larger than myself? 

I'll unconfidently say:

I want to.