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.
Jan 25, 2018
Jan 25, 2018 at 8:02 PM UTC
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.
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