inhuman

Walking in

the waves crashing

sound operating on

a level

you are not acclimated to.

The headphones go on

the stimmimg begins

as the

noise

muffles

leaving you alone in the protective membrane.

Count down the days

until you

never

have to see

any

of these people again.

There

are

sixty

three

days

left.

And then

you shall migrate

a new cage

a new uniform

a new status quo.

But

more room

to breathe

to work

to create.

Maybe it won’t be so bad after all.

But there will

still

be

people.

People are People are People are People

and you are the alien.

The

nervous young inhuman

Pray they

will be

kind.

to you,

for your quirks

are not your own

uncontrollable

untameable

unacceptable tics

Pray they don’t find out

what you truly are

and what

lays claim

to

your

soul

infecting your brain,

your body;

even your thoughts are not your own.

Oh, young inhuman

Pray that your mask won’t slip.