The tubes detach
from my neck,
popping as the
air interjects,
and my curled arms
now wildly flex,
with starving nerves,
I suspect,
aiming for something
far less direct
than a pink-of-hue
insect
with self-surmised
intellect,
drifting slowly now,
a speck,
my face subtly
bedecked
with the soft blue light
my former home reflects,
a place I hereby,
floating off, reject.
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