Wet faces staring,
all knowing freaks,
taunting with
my memories,
speaking solid facts
that break into fragments,
and float into my ears
on a condescending tone,
a stomach churning tone.
I want to scream
my denial, a multitude of questions
with a ladle full of doubt.
Have they stolen my recognition?
Have they gnawed away my thoughts?
Or did a parallel universe
swallow me up in time,
spitting me out in this
white metal dream.
Where I stand.
Where they stare.
Where they wait for the synapse,
wait for the spark
Will it spark?

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