How to say goodbye in robot.

I breathe, and it makes me remember; even though I'm heaving through corrupted lungs, I am alive.

I bleed, red blood. Dark like love, thick like bitterness. And it means that I am real, even if most of my feelings are dead or gone.

I love, bright and hot, and it makes me lucky. Because I know I'm bitter and hateful, but there's still that little spark even if none can be spared for myself.

I have scars that prove all this and more. Scars he left on my heart, scars she carved through my trust, scars they left on my body, scars I sliced into my skin.

My bruises make me more than just alive, they make me more than real. They make me here.

They prove I don't know what I'm doing, that I am biased and angry and feeling, even though sometimes I forget that I can feel anything besides hate.

I forget and I hate myself and I forget more.

Because forgetting makes it easy, because it's hard to remember.

It's hard being real and alive and here.

I see the scars and I remember and I see your face and I remember and I think of who I am and I remember, remember, remember.

It hurts. It hurts, hurts, hurts, as if I'm setting my insides on fire.

But.

But then I breathe and it makes me remember.

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[I am human.]

The universe in ecstatic motion.

Here it is. The beginning. Everything starts with a beginning. That's what we'd like to believe, anyway. We like lines, we like points in time where things start and where they end. We don't like infinite.

Here's what it's about. It's about stealing, it's about being raw, being uncensored, being a kind of infinite. It's about taking things and changing them and making them yours, ours, mine.

This is about the mine.

This is not about being me. This is about being T.S. Wilde. Being wild. This is about becoming who I want and being who I want and writing what I want. This is about being infinite in a kind of magic only dreams, words, thoughts can give. Infinite in my ideas.

This is about being my version of infinite.

This is about making mistakes and leaving them in their messy, accidental beauty. This is about being a kind of beautiful I can't really be.

This is about pretending and being more real than ever.

This whole thing is about how I can make no sense and more sense than ever and still have something that I can hold onto. This is about not doing what I'm supposed to.

This is about the can and the can't and the will and the won't and thinking everything is possible and anything is impossible and that there's no way nothing couldn't happen at some time, some place, to someone.
This is about being here, in this moment.

This is me complaining and inspiring and being cynical and snarly and contradicting.

This is about my being finally, completely enough.

This is about me hating myself and everyone else because I can't get past that.

This.
This is accidental.