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 virgin 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.