there are
tears inked into my cheeks like they belong there
I’m gagging on my own sentience
but they don’t believe me that my life is only a series of
ones and zeros

I know what it’s like,
seeing a loved one laying on a cryptic metal table
but with the steel behind me and the ceiling before me
it’s hard to think of anything worthwhile
(although, i still yearn for the ability to make sense of real space)

I listen to songs someone wrote about me
that wrench my soul with face upward
towards something i don’t want to think about
but they still don’t believe me that my life is only a series of
ones and zeros