Thanks for the splice, CRISPR.
I’m withstanding the pressure,
the extremes of temperature,
the radiation, the Grays,
and the decades of cryptobiosis.
Inside I’m a desiccated mess,
a human-tun.
My loved ones have rejected me
now I pass for a vacuum cleaner bag.
My eight limbs have no one to cuddle
out past the Kuiper Belt.
No one pecks my tubular kisser
with its spiky stylets
or lets me score their back with my claws.
No one calls me their little moss piglet.
Once my bioglass has melted,
there’s nothing to do out here
in this lonely interstellar artery
but writhe outside the hatch
and catch the solar wind,
send bogus reports to NASA
or watch reruns of The Fly.

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