stillfugue

Has no choice but to smash

In on me.

Lines, most perfectly straight,

Some silver or gray,

Some black, some a false brown,

These are man’s lines.

My inescapable conclusion

Is I do not fit.

I do not belong.

My face is compressed

By these wires.

The men who live off of these,

The men who make these,

They all hate me.

They stare and point to

How I don’t belong.

Some of the men and women

Tell me lies.

They tell me I’m okay.

They lie and they show me

The truth when it hurts the most.

I cannot match brain cells

With all of man’s lines.

There is nothing in me

That allows any man or woman

to grant me membership

On this planet.

The lines crash my nothingness.