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.]