Creator!
Or am I forsaken?

I am a mother—I am a god.
I have bottled lightning when my milk drained dry,
and watched them scald their tongues with its heat.
I have sewn machines that hurtled them out of my reach,
only to have them fall, weeping, back into my arms.
My sweat is their honeyed medicine—
though I warn them, they retch from its burn.
They do not learn.

Whom do I consult, my children, when you rebel?

I am a queen—I am a god.
I have constructed a nest from currency and spit.
I have programmed a path for gather and been engulfed in the hoard.
My eggs drop and explode into craters.
Meanwhile, the drones have overthrown the sky—
the oncoming hum is invasion,
and there are no hiding places in a hive.
Somehow, we are alive.

What will I eat, my servants, when you leave only a shell?

I am a god—am I a daughter?
I have traced my hand and used the outline as a barrier—
trespassers were my pets.
I have lingered past sundown behind the walls of strange houses,
and returned with extravagant lies that were believed and repeated.
My mud cakes are flecked with teeth and bone—
yet, I am told they are manna, because I created the taste.
Has it all been a waste?

Who, my maker, will kiss my bruised knee?

If I am the god, who is my savior?
I send this into the mute stifling dark.
I send this beyond the fragile net sifting fire,
beyond the false planets, beyond the damned robots.
My vanity is a virus; my vanity is a radio.
I am witness and executioner of my own crucifixion.
I transmit this to any accessible receiver.
In the static is a plea—

Hear me. Save me.