Self-Weapon [Mystique]
This wretched, disgustingly painted, blue scaly skin will never come off.
My skin will always be my own, only shifting temporarily. At the end of the day, I will never change physically.
The same could be said about my mental state as well. I am always at risk of hurting, or being hurt. I have no choice.
I am always hunted, always on the run from nothing and everything. This is a fact I will never shake off my scales.
It is rough, everything about me. My skin, rough. My brain, rough. I am like a sheet of torn sandpaper, ripped to shreds, but still dangerous, still avoided.
I am used against myself, and against others. I am a weapon. I will always be an object of harm to everybody involved.
I am a danger. I am aware of it. It hurts. My cold, unmoving, barely beating at all times, heart aches.
Part of me doesn't care, doesn't want to know about the way I hurt people. It doesn't care how it's been tortured, manipulated. That part of me dominates my mind.
I am a weapon. I am dangerous, people should be afraid of me. I could be anywhere, hiding or not. I will never be seen, as long as I am not in my own skin.
Hurting people is all I know. My blood has been used against me, used to hurt and attempt to fix people who didn't need fixing.
Hank hates me. He is covered in atrocious blue fur, wrinkled lion-like nose adorning his face.
I think he is beautiful. Part of me loves the way he looks, the way his once-human, now animalistic paws hold onto test tubes. He is so otherworldly to me, in the best way.
He does not feel the same about himself. But I am not the problem. He came to me, asking for my own cells, trying to fix what wasn't wrong.
He hates me now, but he did this to himself.
Neither of us wanted this, but both of us paid.
One day, I will not have to hide.
One day, I will be cured.