She, poor thing, was a laceration
gasping wide across the pallid skin of normality.
They gave her a number. Her fever craved a name.
(They'd made her from a strange and hybrid clay).

Not spun out on the edges of the continuum;
She was made from the milk-white void between.

To old to be a larva, too young to be an insect.
Too viral to be female, too frail to be a male.