how to love a robot that thinks that its a man

"Don't try.
This could never be worth it."
I said this to myself today, and this time it almost helped.
Maybe it's true that this is all because of me.
When things fall apart, it seems that I'm always guilty.

Well, most people know how I am by now, and if they don't, they'll find out soon enough.
Then they can choose to try and resist me or to hold on for dear life.
I suppose it's silly of me, then, to try to reconcile my behavior with what a man expects of me.
Maybe women are manipulative. Maybe they are crazy and control freaks, out of touch with reality. Maybe I am not different than what I am believed to be, although all I ever wanted was for someone to believe me.
But I never could tell the truth. Not to God, and not to you. Instead of letting go, I just move things to where I can no longer see them. I use the inside of my foot to slide everything under my bed. Sometimes it feels like it's all really gone. Sometimes I almost believe that it is.
So when I lay on my bed, my mess is beneath me. It feels quiet and empty, and it resounds throughout m whole body until I am convinced that I am alone, and that that's the universal truth of everything, so I can stop looking for it now.

Everyone dies alone, someone said. We are all born alone, and we all die alone.
I see now that this is a good thing. I don't ever want you to follow me, bringing with you all of my misery, all of your bricks of anger and suffering, the deserts of dirt that you pile on top of me.
I'm supposed to forgive you for ever feeling wronged by you. For never apologizing, for never feeling sorry. For being so much better than me, for saying that you loved me, for convincing me that someone dead could breathe.
Instead, all I can feel is this anger, an emotion that keeps me weak, a flaw that feeds you.
But how can I not be angry when you are an insult to the human being? You disrespect the potential of man. Cold intellect and mechanical logic will do little to save you from the pain of a life without love, a life without meaning. What is the point of a genius if he contributes nothing of value to anything? What could you possibly teach anybody? The only thing you've taught me is to always be wary, especially of the people who say that they love me. Where is your compassion? Your loyalty? Your strength? Have you no virtue?

Above all things, the human spirit survives. It thirsts for life, fights for life, dies for life. What have you ever fought for? What could you ever die for? You are a joke of evolution, an anomaly of natural selection, a mutation, a malignant growth.
Cells gone wrong.
You are cancerous, feeding off of everyone else and giving sickness in return. You suck the life out of living things, you smother joy and beauty, you pump disease into the veins of society.
It is an offense that you share the earth with life, with people who aspire, who hope, who achieve
that you breathe the same air as survivors, the tortured and abused who are still more alive than you
that you rub shoulders with soldiers, with fighters, people who sacrifice themselves for the people like you.
You make a mockery of true despair. You deserve nothing, and you've earned even less. How dare you judge me by my infirmities?

Again, in the end, I can only blame myself
I believed that a machine could turn into something else.