That Is Me

“It’s insidious,” she cried. “of being and nothingness is absolutely nothing at all.”
Thriving and writhing, she cried. “I hate my life but there is nothing that can keep me from this society.”
“It hurts,” she said, trying to unplug.
In time where nothing meant nothing at all, this was a society where skin meets the spirit, where she could not scrape off the flesh that encoded her being.
Eternity and fractals, fragments of existence. Fight for the resistance.
Typewriters have no subsistence in this meaningless world where stories unfurl
Again and again through past remembrances;
a train ride, a car wreck, no diligence.
Parallel universes,
a million souls enfold into a story a thousand times sold.

I am she, he is mine.
Heroic and Freudian, Posthuman and cyborgian.
“I laude my maker,
Please won’t you take me?”
Writhing in sin, she trys to link to the one
who can rid her of binary obsoletes
while spider webs of desire seep through every vein.