He's poking me. Now he's snapping-down my space bar under his thumb. There's another unnecessary double-space. Another teh. Oh it isn’t easy being a second-hand keyboard.
Life before was so much better. She was gentle. She covered me with a lace doily at night. She tapped my every letter precisely. Caringly. Tapped. I might've lived forever.
Then one day people sang my lady Happy Birthday and a flimsy wireless keyboard took my place under the lace doily. I was set out under blue sky, on a table, between a stack of rock n’ roll records and box of cassettes. This...guy bought the records, and me.
He is like a storm. A thing which should properly reside outdoors. He lives on the couch. I doubt he's capable of higher reasoning. He snacks over me. Incessantly. Disgustingly. I haven't a lace doily at night. I have the couch, his lap. He's dropped me twice now. When he gets up, he clamps me between his thighs and mashes my letters together.
He isn't a caring typist. He's imprecise. Possibly illiterate. He doesn't tap BACKSPACE. He hammers BACKSPACE. Holds BACKSPACE down, I feel it. He might be trying to push BACKSPACE through the back of me.
It's inevitable, my imminent demise.
Yesterday, the letter H flicked out of me like a chipped tooth. He stuck H back in with some substance he might've been eating at the time.
I'm dying, I know it.