The fine edges of the table dig into
her fingers when she lifts them to see
what’s been gathering there.
What she finds is like a pile of corpses
already starting to rot.

The fraying of old wires make the
machines start to think a little differently,
and keep secrets like a human would.
Sometimes she has memories that aren’t hers.
There’s one in particular with a light that gets
brighter when she moves toward it.

Half smoked joints line her windowsill
and to kill time she goes through and re-lights
them to take tiny hits that make her bite her
nails. The rails of the train tracks felt cold under
her bare feet, and she walked across them like a
tight rope, being very careful to listen for anything
headed her way.

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