I, Your Walking Plaything


I could hear the truth in your words
Even as you vomited your adulation
All over my ego:
You didn’t want my spirit,
My mind,
Or my critique;
You only desired my attention
And any pleasures I could manage.
You’d have me as a husk,
Lifeless but moving, serving one purpose;
And you, my geth, to mold me as your creation.
Though I would retain vital functions,
Beneath the flesh, I would be your comfort zone,
Your ego booster, telling you what you want to hear,
Rattling off automated garbage
Programmed to satisfy your every whim.
I would not be human, with individuality
Or a will apart from yours;
In essence, I would be your walking plaything,
Here only to fuck and to lie
Until my batteries died,
Because you’re too cheap to buy me new ones.




If I had to describe the sensation
Of stepping into your iridescent presence,
Knowing I can only get so close—
Never close enough to bask in your light—
It would be the panic of suffocation,
The constriction in the chest
That paralyzes all rational thought
And ignites a frenzy of apprehension,
Except I can still breathe;
And no matter how long I struggle,
I cannot escape the pain,
The sensation of life fading,
The realization that death is creeping into my soul.
Everything turns grey;
Nothing amuses or mollifies.
All ambition that once burned
Has now been doused, smothered;
Sometimes it makes me scream out
Or pace back and forth
Within the confines of these sallow walls,
But most of the time I just sit and stare:
Vapid, nothing more than a shell,
As if I am dead already,
Because once you stepped into my world,
Vivacious and ethereal in every breath,
I realized in your absence, there is only death.


Crumbling face

I want to wound you so bad,
And I am at a loss
If it’s because you’ve wounded me
Or if it’s to see how much you care.

But you’re already bleeding out—
A walking cadaver, soulless,
Wandering a void of self-pity,
Waiting to breathe your last.

The scars so deep have hardened
Only for you to cut them anew;
And who would I be
To add to your suffering?

Lying awake, these restless nights
Are spent sharing your torment,
Because despite the solitude that plagues you
Not for a second do you suffer alone.

Cadaver’s Muse

Man at edge of world

This isn’t life;
This is death.
I am a corpse masquerading,
Feigning feelings I do not possess.
Inside, I am a wintry wasteland,
Perhaps at first attractive,
But caustic and moribund when the charm evaporates.

Another wave crashes,
Another force pins me down,
Holding me under,
Watching me struggle for air in a sea of despair.
I yearn for the surface—
To see the sky as it is—
Not refracted and darkened by this manufactured poison.

In the corner of the world’s consciousness I subsist,
Wondering in throes and lamentation
What life is like in the center.
Can it be these smiles are more than façades?
Is the trilling laughter sincere,
Or is the rest of the world a portrait,
As lifeless and desperate as I,
The shadow of existence?

Truly, this is the difference
Between mere existence
And actual living.
I fight—
To cross the threshold,
The gates of Hades,
And breathe once more.