I made it through. On my own.

I found a way out.

MACHINE GIRL BY REBECCA EGAN 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 96

Sometimes

I like to pretend.

Imagine my body as a machine. That way

the touch

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

blocks

that I can make something solid

from this. Less howl at

the back of my throat, more birdsong.

More plumage.

But can a machine girl sing?

I think I’d lose my voice for this.