Look upon my face, and tell me you do not feel the primal urge to scream in terror. Tell me that I'm more human than machine, and my ripped and bleeding flesh that oozes with my juices is just an imagination. The metal mixes with the skin, while my red eye never stops blinking its silent cry of pain and pity, which I know you can hear. Pain that never dies, burns through the tissue, reminding me that, no matter how far I run, I still belong to the damned fiends who created me.

Kiss my lips, and try not to squirm under their chalky feel. They are dead, I know, only giving way to harsh bellows instead of the tender whispers I long to say to you. You tell me that, "we were never like that", but I don't understand what you mean. I love you; I remember holding you and kissing you, yet you refuse to touch your lips to mine.

Feel the sadness that burns with acidic rage inside of me, eating away at the very core of my existence. I am no longer the person I claimed to be, and that fact alone infuriates me more than any metallic covering ever could. Am I Zack? X5-599? Or, some greater monster that lives inside of me, waiting to protrude into existence?

But, don't con yourself, Max. I know what you see and want and feel. I am indeed a hellish monster that you will never kiss the sorrow of. So, there's no point in lying to both me and you; it won't do any good.