Broken Little Machine

“What is wrong with you?”
you ask me
Like I am some diseased, broken machine
The rust eating away the connections
Metallic pieces of me falling to the ground
Virus working its way to my microchip brain.

“I just can’t understand you anymore.”
you say to me
And I sputter, and stutter, and spit out monochromatic prints
Some in shades of red, others
in shades of blue, mostly
in red though.

Infected channels travel to my wired electrode heart.

“Why won’t you talk to me?”
you ask me
And the electrodes begin to fry, the wires melt
The mass of metal falls apart

Crumbles   Breaks

All the while you look at me
And ask questions
of your broken little machine.

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