Real girls are spongy.
I bounce off them
and ricochet around the room,
leaving splats of color
on the walls and the floors,
dripping
oozing
spilling
into crevices and corners,
finger painting
the imperfect lines of their bodies,
wiping off the colors
to reveal the skin beneath.
* * *
She was a robot
for love.
A girl
made of bolts and screws.
The perfect woman.
Programmed to hug,
kiss and caress.
To always say yes
to his every whim.
Built to love.
Built to cook.
No baggage.
No needs.
Just pure devotion.
Even that wasn’t enough.
Everything he wanted
wasn’t really what he wanted.
And everything she had to give
really wasn’t enough.