they think we are machines

Substance by Leslie Ann O’Dell

I didn’t know what to do then. you found me crouching in the dark with flesh hanging off my bones in a fucked up exhibition of poses. it’s not mine to keep, they seem to scream, and I just laugh at their perfect faces and I see through it, I do, I do, but today I lost my hands. the message worms itself into my movements. liquid tin through steel framed veins.

I choke on the bedroom air. oily tears sink into your neck like slow bullets.


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