I made it through. On my own.
I like to pretend.
Imagine my body as a machine. That way
of hands unwanted
can be washed away. Free
of fingerprints, only at risk
of rust. And what is rust if not
a sign of survival. And isn’t risk
only held in a heartbeat.
I want a signal
that screams I made it through. On my
own. I found a way out. But here I am
undeniably human. I pretend.
Like a child with building
that I can make something solid
from this. Less howl at
the back of my throat, more birdsong.
But can a machine girl sing?
I think I’d lose my voice for this.