Suffragette Machine

I found this amongst some things burried in my briefcase. It was obviously written much earlier in the year, or maybe even late last year. Nevertheless, I made some changes to it and have decided to display. It's a good example of how tortured this situation was.

Your sound is like running water
Flowing through my brain
Silence would be mercy
Time to build up a stronger dam

Desperately seeking a way
A means to shut you out
Feels like cutting off my arm
Slow torture blood trickle spout

There’s no machete blessing
Or a card in the mail
Not a chance for condolence
For all of the things that have failed

Just this death-toll vapour
The menacing sound
Of mechanical music
That I can’t save and can’t snuff out

You are my suffragette machine
And she is your slave trader
The skill is believing that the machine
Is neither a god nor the devil

But I try till I choke
To equally revive and to kill
This broken train car
While you stand silent and still

Your capacity for insulation
To adhere to your own falacy
Now your former sole comrade
The imaginary enemy you made me

The grass is never but always greener
In the dreams of my past life
Than how it is when awake
And the twisting ache of the knife