cars move,
from the right– left,
from the left– right,
up– down,
down– up
carrying people riding behind unlit rooms
never touching things, never perceiving what this is,
covered in metallic skin they so dearly touch,
they so dearly feel,
they so dearly masturbate to it, have sex, rub, suck,
or pray to it.

I was left out, broken car.
(broken by me)
broken by my need to feel more than just metallic skin.

and their egoistic call is so kind.
everyone waves when they see me there
(out, nowhere,)
so many stop and ask to take me with them
(make me be one of them)
so many ask to fix my car
(dye it in metallic colors)
but my ego wants what it wants.

It is done with robotic needs, done with robotic touch
done with iron taste in my mouth, done with touch without feel
done with prosthetic minds, done with fabricated cars
done with driving just for the sake of it, done with clashing just to rest a bit
done with painting without humanity, done with emotion without reason
done with flashing lights to get attention, done with clashing without compassion
done with feeling higher just because of a blue car
or feeling lower just because of a pink one,
done with speed, done with looks, done with strength.

I grew up.

yet, still,
so many stop.
but none of them leaves without getting cold.

as for me,
I was blessed with harsh skin.
It can survive the sun, the dryness
the snow…
it can survive the cold.


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