Hard cold metal plates in my veins
shifting, slipping, stirring
from that which won’t be named
Blood coagulates, runs thicker
I bite down my tongue
I fight back the bile that
threatens to rise from the grave
In pretending to be a person,
a person who still feels
but sometimes doubts
the villainy and the play
Is your reflection an illusion
A ghostly after-image
seared onto the back of my retinas
Will it ever be solid matter,
did the projector ever create dreams
or am I lowly and deranged?

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