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Rusting With the Wasteland

“Oh, love doesn’t exist. It’s just something people say when they want get in your pants. Something people say to control you and keep you as insurance,” she said, elbow rested on the table and palm cradling her face. “Love is the delirium of a heart that fears to be alone, because being alone is the closest thing to death.” She pulled on her cigarette and blew smoke upwards.”It’s pathetic. That is what it is really.”

And I watched as the humanoid repeated the same mantra on a loop, the same look, the same gestures and movements. At her rusting feet scraps of robot limbs, heads with heart-shapped eyes,  crazed smiles and bulging chests strewn across the floor, I looked at myself in the mirror behind the bar, my metallic bulging chest, my heart-shapped eyes, my permanent smile, and wondered why I was doing this again, why I couldn’t just  let her go.

Stuck in my own rigid ways and mantras, rusting with the wasteland.

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