The lights are condensed and contained in raindrops that slide down the windows; tears rolling down a cyborg’s cheek. Your voice is taken apart by the space in between us, dismantled by a claustrophobic strain, a stripped wire by the time it reaches me. A deadpan hit.
A mechanized twinkle in your eyes, built to hook and snare, you look through me with an automatized hunger. You wear a skin so thin and cold. With a tendency to rob moments of their softness. Only capable of surgical passion, you have a taste for warm bodies that make for the best killing.
The hollow scream of passing cars buries your shallow breath. Bionic, knuckles of white withered steel gripping the steering wheel, you have an aversion to bleeding hearts. You rip through my flesh, tissue, and vein to trash the inconveniences- to get rid of the human parts. You cauterize wounds from your hushed hostility with a mulled insincerity.
You can’t love me for my conscience.
This split second of a lifetime is distorted by a superimposed shadow that hangs on the edges of your figure. Time ceases to operate beyond the parameters of this moment, and in half a gesture you indicate the end of the world.