Anima Latrone

The Apple in my pocket throbbed with a life of it's own
I already turned the ringer off
And it's set to not vibrate
It's talking to me telepathically
Begging me to use it
To touch or talk to it

That freaks me out
So I toss it on the couch
Where it lays quiet for a second or two
Then sprouts machined metal legs
Clambering after me
Calling out to me
Crabbing it's way across the room

I yell at it
I run from it
From room to room
And it follows
Plaintively calling it's song
Unheard to others
But silent and deadly twice as strong

Finally I run out of house
After seemingly avoiding all the exit doors
Doubtless some sort of mind control
Being exercised by the demon within my phone

I crouch in terror
My hands falling to my sides
Where I find my hand resting on a sheathe
Where my Leatherman resides

Now with a weapon at hand
I brandish it with zeal
None of which stops the demon phone's advances
As it hungers after me as if I were it's last meal

It jumps just as I slash
Our purposes colliding in midair
Skewering this chunk of Cupertino hardware
Upon my knife blade
Where it quivered wishing for me still

I put it on the floor
Pinning it with the blade
Placing my foot upon it
I yank my tool free and stare

As the phone becomes still beneath my weight
And I can see clearly inside
That all is not electronics within
Now that there was no Gorilla Glass behind which to hide

Crouching down to look closer
Picking at it with my tool in hand
The glass pulled away easily
Exposing it's strange insides
Which I'd call about 99 percent electronic
And 1 percent 'other'

What was in there in so minute amount
Seemed familiar to me
I picked the phone carcass off the green shag carpet
Cradling it in my hands
A tear unbidden upon my cheek

With all the bonding I'd done with this device
The soft touching and talking
The poems, stories, grocery lists and texts
That were put into its memory
I find that there is more than a little bit of me in here

This familiar part
This one percent
A tiny piece of my soul