It is anxious

 it is lies.

it looks into its mirror

humanity stripped away like an old band-aid

quickly with the diagnosis

ill-fitting body,

awfully human.

it looks into its mirror.

it sees itself.

it is lies.

it uses different names for different friends.

it rebels by saying it's not human

(fully, maybe, at all).

awfully human. 

ill-fitting clothes on a body

unacknowledged by it.

just an image in the mirror.

 

the hands are pretty, 

half-working lattice of veins 

and nerves around brittle bones.

useful.

just an image in the mirror.

can an image hurt?

wrong name. 

it wants to dig a hole and lie down. 

it is lies.

it is lies told itself before falling asleep

falling into the end of endless void.

it is a cloud hanging in that void.

it is anxious.

safety of its room destroyed 

with lessons where it can see its name.

'names are overrated' it thinks.

it is anxious.

it's a new school year

at least it can cover its face

and imagine there is no mouth.

 it is anxious.

it has to speak.

it has a pleasant voice, it thinks

but still - too robotic.

it's happy to have a monotone robotic voice

it's happy to write in it

it's anxious about its awkward stiff movements.

again, robotic, it gives itself a break. 

it is lies.

it is anxious about them,

it is anxious about having to behave

like a proper human being.

 

it decides to not.

it decides to sit eerily still

and speak only in letters.

it is relieved to be itself.