Charging in the darkroom
while you sleep I am touch and go
I flicker and get turned on
Exterior shell, interior disco
I like my liver steeled
as a gun, my wires
unbuttoned to you
The reason I was built
is to outlast some terribly
feminine sickness
that is delivered
to the blood through kale
salad and pity and men
with straight-haired girlfriends
The future’s a skirt of
expectation to mourn
This way, hard-cased
you can put your eyes on me
It’s less about obedience than
silvery lipstick stains
It’s mostly about machine tits
Artificially I’m interested
Virtually I’m drunk
The future’s a girlish helmet
with circuits that need doctors
In the future our bodies can’t
I dare you
Tell me apart from other girls
Nothing aches in here
It’s a quiet, calculated shame