The Robot

I am broken. Every bone in my body cracks and splinters, piercing through muscle and skin. My lungs close in on my heart, blood oozing from the invisible fractures. I itch, skin peeling of in flakes and falling to the ground like confetti. My hair falls out in tangled clumps. My head hurts as my skull shrinks, squeezing my brain until all my veins pop. I crumble to the ground in an unrecognizable heap. I am a broken a thing, falling through their fingers like sawdust. They turn a blind eye, ignoring the uncomfortable feeling, favoring the bliss of ignorance. They disregard me as they brush the remaining bits from their fingers. I am a broken thing. Falling into a pile of nothingness. It’s as if I were never here. They don’t even bother to sweep up the mess. They trample through me instead, grinding all of the pieces into the ground, smothering me into oblivion. I am nothing. All I ever wanted to be was something. But wishing for something isn’t enough to manifest it into truth. I do not exist to be loved, but to be destroyed. They made sure of that. But I am not to be forgotten.