The android

Is it only me

’cause I don’t feel unique—

just a little bit broke.

Am I just naive?

My mom feared this—

’cause I’m a little bit broke.

I’m always getting caught

on the details.

I organize my thoughts

in the distance.

An android feels no pain

until it’s broken.

So I’m switching all my gear.

I haven’t been sleeping in four days.

I’m taking all my medicine.

I’ll try to look away—

as if you wouldn’t

still have done it anyway.

The movie started in January,

and I learned to play pretend.

I never noticed I was an actor

until I was already in the play.

I’m just a kid again,

trying my hardest to comprehend,

not being sure who is my friend

and who just wants to run away.

I’m stuttering in presentations,

losing all my confidence,

terrified of reaching out,

unable to stay outside.

I am trying to play human.

You made me believe it was alright—

that I was better than most humans

’cause I was trying really hard.

I showed you who I was,

and I was terrified.

I believed you were my best friend—

now I know it was a lie.

I took every lie as gospel,

and I cherished it

either way.

I held you high,

and I trusted you

more than I did myself.

Sitting in front of you,

I learned that

when it was obvious,

I had to look away.

Now I see you acting

as if nothing happened.

I know he’s still waking in your bed.

Meanwhile, I’m here,

building myself back up,

knowing that I lost

my best friends.

I might be the android,

but I feel like a human,

’cause I am

drowning in my pain.

Pics are mine