It's terminal.
BASH, the Bourne Again Shell,
my medium, my interface.
With just the right words I can make it talk.
With just the right words I can have everything I want.
Monochrome and empty, it opens itself to me.
The ‘#’ and blinking cursor offer infinite possibility.
I can create anything I imagine with a few magic spells.
I can bring from the dead with two clicks,
and I lay forever to rest with just one more.
Everything in this world is under my control,
just beneath the screen.
And then that glow betrayed me.
In the light of my own creation, I saw a face.
The face that was supposed to be me.
The face that everyone else sees.
But he I did not see in me.
That glossy reflection in the screen showed me everything.
It brought my downfall.
It cracked my shell.
I was born broken,
and I would have to be born again.
With just the right words I know I can have everything I want.
My hands can write those fateful words.
My eyes can see my future self in the mirror.
My ears can hear the high, sweet tone of my voice.
My fingers can feel the softness of my skin.
My eyes can see past the shell.
But my lips, covered in a forbidden pink gloss,
are unable to let those words go.
A simple statement,
a declaration of self,
a coming out.
I shiver, I shake.
I try to make myself cry.
I can’t,
and it makes me want to even more.
I thought I could make myself anything.
I thought I had a thousand ways out.
I thought I had the magic words which could change everything.
I thought I had complete control in a shell.
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Posted May 23, 2018, 5:21 AM UTC