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I don’t know how to talk about it,

beyond the screen.

Programming metaphors;

weaving in the cries between the lies.

Waiting for one reader,

to intercept

and intervene.

Spitting numbers into letters.

The inner voice

screams

at my therapist machine.

Pent up pain

wiping the slate clean.

Banging my fists against the glass.

I’m desperately looking

at the little lights in green.

Seeking some response,

before I do something obscene.

Come on.

One of you must have seen!

Did you not get what I mean?

My online conscious

Is disjointed.

Infected by malware.

Transferring files in routine.

They must’ve been corrupted.

  

After all,

the hardware,

my avatar,

in flesh and blood,

isn’t to be trusted.

It withholds information.

Whatever’s manifested;

Glitches and bugs

on the surface,

all shunted aside.

Error messages:

Reconstructed.

Unresolved issues:

Cannot be deleted.

Hide them all under nameless files.

Leaves the other functions

unobstructed.

Set a protocol in place:

Prioritise the other maladjusted.

Don’t let slip a word.

Don’t need to be heard.

You’ll function fine.

You don’t want to be mistrusted.

Not your avatar,

the flesh and blood.

On the screen?

Another story.

Let it flood.

You may be faulty;

circuits caked in mud.

But you can trust the screen.

It knows what you mean.

On this digital crutch,

I lean.

Memory card failing.

Keeping record

of all I can.

What I’ve done.

Where I’ve been.

Finger hovering on the shutdown button.

More often than not,

It all goes unseen.