My fingertips sweep across these subtle indentations Tracing her serial number A traumatic and numbing truth copy written and branded on a tiny scar just below her microscopic transistor voice box The shallow intake of oxygen into recycled plastic lungs recycling air either for realism or function felt just as alluring when they whispered into my ear Her hardwired ducts always produced tears that hurt just as much even if it was programmable and on command Losing the warm caress of her polymer skin was just as painful even though underneath was only cellular service and not cellular growth I swore to my friends that she wasn't like any other I've ever loved but as I push the lifeless shell of this all too perfect woman into the muck caked dumpster I think to myself Maybe I would have had better luck with a name brand