DEMATSROR

The GLITCH

​I skipped the ritual last night.
No quiet breathing to build the bridge,
no deliberate steps down into the dark.

I simply let go of the keys,
and the architecture collapsed into sleep.
​I woke up scattered across an unmapped floor.

​The morning arrives
like an unrendered map,
dropping me into a skin I forgot I owned.

The daylight is too sharp, too loud -
Just too bright as a spotlight on a stage
where I’ve forgotten my cues.

A textbook written in a language
I am supposed to know,
but the pages are entirely blank.

There is no validation point in the grid.
No coordinates for a man
who is everywhere and nowhere at once.

​How did I get here?

I am the librarian standing in a sudden, silent wing,
surrounded by shelves of unwritten volumes,
wondering how to teach a class on a subject
that is currently rewriting my blood.

I am as a player in a game I didn’t boot up,
reciting lines from a script I didn’t write.
​When does it feel real?
At what point does the avatar bleed?

​Outside, the cloud covering Ghana
breaks open,
into a heavy, predictable download of water.
The zinc roof rattles with the static of a billion drops;
the only real sound in a world made of glass.

Inside, the cosmos leaves its signature
in the shivering cold.
I don't have the index cards,
and I don't have the answers.

​All I have is the truth of the weather,
and the chills that bathe my skin
with goosebumps.

I sit at the edge of the screen,
listening to the sky try to wash away the programming.

​If this is a role-play,
who holds the controller?
I am the model, glitching,
But the rain does feel so cold.

​It’s a strange space to inhabit—
wondering where the character ends
and where I actually begin.
But as long as I can hear that rain
hitting home hard on the roof,
there is at least one anchor in the grid.

©️ DEMATSROR

THE FAITHFUL CHEAT

​Every single time
my fingers lace through yours,
my skin misbehaves.
It recoils into a quiet panic
because the geometry of our palms
doesn’t match the blueprint in my chest.
I am holding your hand,
but my nerve endings are translating the grip as a forgery.
It feels like I’ve reached across the dark
and accidentally grabbed a stranger.
It should be someone else’s hand.
It belongs to someone else.

​We go through the motions.
We walk the paths, we build the days,
we do all the "right" things.
On paper, it’s a masterpiece.
In reality, it feels like a well-rehearsed play
where I’ve forgotten my own name.
Every right move feels like a step
in the wrong direction.

​And then,
the quiet devastation of the touch.
The kiss.

​It isn't just that the spark is missing—
it’s heavier than that.
It feels profoundly un-matrimonial,
like a sacred vow spoken
in a language neither of us understands.
It tastes like denial.
It feels like standing in a courtroom,
guilty of a crime I didn’t mean to commit,
pretending this altar is ours
when it’s just a stage.

​So, we try to drown the truth
in the noise of the flesh.
We give in to the heat.
We dive into the extremity of it,
pulling out all the stops,
burning through the sensuality
until the room is heavy with sweat and breath.
We go at it with everything we’ve got left,
hoping the friction will spark a fire
that is actually real.

​But it doesn't.

​Even in the deepest,
most chaotic rush of the climax,
the truth sits at the edge of the bed,
watching us - looking at me looking at you.
The genuine emotion—
the pure, raw capacity to love—
gets warped and weaponized
into hyper-sexuality,
a desperate attempt to feel something real
with someone who isn't it.
I look down at us, and the realization hits
like ice water: My other half is out there
somewhere under the same sky,
breathing, waiting, completely unaware
that right here, in the arms of the person I chose,
I am technically faithful.

​And I am, cheating on them, with you.

©️ DEMATSROR