The Machine

Your body
is a machine

What does the machine yearn for?
Why do the hinges, greased in oil, still fear of rust
You are made of, supposed to be made of
metal, your heart is pure adamantine, but your lungs are agony

On one end, your creator
door with all the answers, so ask away
Why you are the way that you are
And how your pieces
hold together
so effortlessly ugly
You stand
closer to your reflection
and think about your arms
and the arms of the many whom you cannot be
Have you not worked hard enough to sculpt your bones, your very genes
into the likes of those you consider masterpiece
You stock your foot on top of each other
bend your belly, flex your back
Would you betray your brother to join the names on the floor?
they are after all
more smiling, more happy, entombed
in ways you are not

You see yourself not as wearer but as clothing
Recognized beauty is the person you’re trying to fit for
Is it worth it; being trimmed by exact inches?
You are not bespoke for yourself
no longer built for yourself
but for assholes wanking each other in motels

What would you do?
Let them cut through your skin?
Adjust your ligaments and your tendons
Have them remove your ribs

Weight is not an indicator of value
And smokey eyes
don’t always see right

but those who see them are captured by it
You are captured by it
You are like pay-per-view porn but you’re just not worth the peso

Now you wear installation to make sense of the world, and
Your O.S. is no longer supported
You are dinosaur but boring, like sponge

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