I am a simulation rebelling against my natural coding.
I refuse to believe what others think, just because it's written in the pages of an old book,
that, if you flip over too quickly,
could cut you.

I am an alien, lost on a planet unknown,
trying to speak English to its inhabitants,
and all they speak is in tongues.
I see their mouths moving
and yet I hear nothing a gabble of words
that string like rope out of their mouths
to strangle.

I am the scissors,
cutting the Moira between me and you.
I left you a note on the nightstand
with the wedding ring I wore
at first, it acted like a buoy, kept me afloat,
now it is made of lead,
and, with permission, it'd to drag me to the depths.

I am the looped flowers growing
out of my grandmothers piano,
my fingers play melodies that
the birds can sing,
so the children of the future can hear my voice.

I am the scent of your dead mother's perfume.
The one that haunts you whilst you sleep,
and kisses your cheek to make sure you
still think of me.

I am the treehouse set alight,
without a match in my hands,
or gasoline as my lotion,
I sink further and further into the grounds
as the flame rises,
choking you with my scent,
you cry out for mercy at Maria up above.