I can feel it sitting, just beneath my breastbone, humming. Waiting. The sun has darkened my freckles and the angry robot is there, powering up, trying to take over and shove those fists into my hands when I'm not looking, like a sneaky child with a bug.
Right now things are going too well for it to be much danger, but in wrong moments it surges, a lunatic at the bars. A wistful late-night walk home makes it throb, a failed conversation, one drink too many combined with not quite enough courage. Sometime here soon I'll make a decision that sounds like fun but, like closing my hand on the flower that conceals a bee, it will turn out to be the angry robot decision.
And then it will drink your whiskey with my throat, and capture all of your secrets in a bag, and kiss the wrong person with my lips. The angry robot leaves casualties wherever it goes, and it won't be satisfied to sit quietly all summer, no matter how pleasant life is around it.
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