Stop

i am a product
born for your consumption
everything you read, you think you know is
one one-thousandth
of the truth

behind your screens your fingers reach
jesus fucking christ don't tell me what else they do-
you're pathetic.

you might as well have photographs
of bart simpson
or some long-dead silent movie actress
pasted to your walls
you know them better
they're more real to you
than i will ever be.

you can't handle it, can you?
the thought of someone being fake, imaginary
the thought that what i give you is only the dregs
of my mind
the reality that when i am lying in bed
breathing smoke and truth
you are nowhere near
my thoughts.

i was created
to give you something to do
i am plastic, something chemical
multi-syllabic, hard to pronounce
but oh-shiny-
and listen to the pretty sounds i make.

you have no idea
and in the middle of your ignorance
your carefully crafted not knowing
i exist in the mind
of someone else.