movement like a river
constant and needlessly noisy
she looks real.
her voice cracks and pitches
like a flame dancing with itself in the dark
you don’t hear tracks running behind it.
with skin that’s soft and even tears and scabs,
hair that decides its own destiny when forgotten,
and eyes that light up at the mere idea of finding passion,
she’s almost real.
and in touch, sound, and taste, she is as real as they come
but upon close inspection, you can find the markings
she’s an authentic piece, yes, but she is of faulty production
she comes with a heart that can cover the world,
pre-packaged with stand-alone strength,
she was made for top shelf experiences
but she has no capacity to be loved.
she’s a little sharp in the mind and
sharper around the edges of her heart
she’s been bred to hold it out to passerbys
streetman, sampler, a simple peddler on the corner
and accepts payments of ignorance and hurt just as kindly
like the best of models, she learns
although some lessons need reteaching for reiteration
so her history repeats itself
like a broken record
love skips her mid-verse
which is fine because she’s always danced alone
except when she dances, you think she’s real