I am a self-made machine. I respond to admiration and attention. Selfish being unsure of the right response. Wires tampered; my mouth a dribbling mess. proclaiming my love to everyman and hiding as soon as a retort. There is no love within my jaw. I often ponder, am I fueled by normality? Doing what we're designed to do? Perhaps the world whispered to me that women need to be a constant yearning; Hungry skin under ****** bones never satisfied. thought churned into mush but still so hard to swallow. I find desperation. Mere affectionate action, making my stomach bleed. Though as they waltz away, I thirst for their hand to cup my shoulder blade hand to their shoulder seam. What is a girl supposed to do. Love pushes itself against me and I find myself ungracefully turning all that pleading for appreciation straight into the void.