You think I love you, but you're wrong
I am a collection of parts. For I am not whole. I am hollow. And breakable. Transparent. Replaceable. And when I die, there will be no grand exit as I had always planned, I will go quietly into that good night. Silent. Hush now little one. Who's hungered for so long. I wonder where it is I will go. To the land of milk and honey? Where I, the starving bag of bones, will be fed? Will I stand before "he", who some say has yet to come and others prophesied to come again? Will he tell me i've done his will and his work to my fullest? Will I have failed? Will Saint Catherine herself look upon me in shame and condem me to hell? Below. Where pale flesh and skin will melt. Scream, but you'll never get out. I am a collection of parts. For I am not whole. I am empty. I am nothing. Mechanical. And Machine. And when I die, there will be no fantastic tear filled funeral as I had always thought, I will be added to the heap. Another number. Nameless. Who means nothing.