There's this tension that I can't seem to shake. It thrives in my lungs and my throat and escapes through my mouth. It's this heaving; it's heavy breathing.
And now the world is quaking and everything I look at is shaking. But that's just my hands. They infect the things--the humans--they touch.
Except, it's all normal because I'm laughing. I'm throwing my head back and my hair quivers because the noise erupting causes my body to erupt, too. Because, I think, I'm programmed that way.
This is why. I let distractions come if it means escaping the reality of what's happening to me. I let you in and I let you in and I keep letting you in. Because someone planted it in my system.
This is why. I'm alive and I feel alive and I pretend I'm not pretending.
And it's my everyday routine.
This is why I'm a machine.
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