Poetry

[Brittany]

Yes, it's depressing. Yes, it's exactly how I feel.


Love Machine

There are days when you still see me,
cracking gears and rusting tendons,
marching over the fields
of shattered hearts and expired equipment,
still searching with unblinking eyes
for those shudders of pain.
Needle attachments. Compensate. Alleviate.
Programmed words and gestures-
gentle touches from fingers
whose tips have worn to sharp points.

It is compulsive, second nature.
Pain is the fuel that turns the motor.
Feel it, programmed, no turning off.
It coats every inch of my soul like polymer resin.
Feel it. Take it. Driven on by
sensors that make each scream
a knife through a coating of skin
that still somehow feels
though nothing lies beneath it.
Computer code makes me care.

Self repairing- latest model.
Stab me again. It grows back.
Pay no attention, do not worry
about that scent of rot
that comes from within.
I'm not outdated.
I'm dependable.
Don't you dare worry
that I'm dying inside.
I'm here to heal your pain.

I'm a love machine, baby,
deployed onto the battlefield
where the gnashing teeth of the media
spew hateful words like Gatling guns.
Built efficient, built to last,
built to suck the impurity out of the air,
created to save you from this insanity.
It's who I am. It's what I do.
It's all I'll ever be to you.
There is honor in fulfilling the program.

I'm just a trusty
rusty
love machine
com
ing
to
sav e

you,
b
a
by...