Tell me if I am. Or I will continue to speak.

Am I done?

And yes this is yuri

Werewolf that has abandoned her autonomy long ago. A reflection of her pain, she grafts identity to perpetually twisted flesh. She greets each new change as old friends, met for the first and last time. She doesn't know what she was and stopped caring. She doesn't recognize herself in the mirror.

dead girl dancing

If I could make that change, could you? If I could tear the wires from my nature, could you? If you watched my birth yet still scorned the person I was before then, could you? Would you? Would you want to be me? I certainly didn't, and that time passed. The me that you knew is gone. Like you.

And this wasn't any better, was it? You shunned my new consciousness with a deeper despair than before. I could tell this time. I knew. I had FELT it. You measure out your disgust with such structure it feels robotic. And it would be then that I hate machines like you.

I meditated through my pain on the obscene conception, watching over my birthing form as it rent itself free of a husk. I was dirty, immoral, volatile, and imperfect. I was what you saw in me. The gaps in what you hated bore a disgusting idea, now given flesh just like yours. I hate metal. Do you?

So I waited for your sun to hide itself and conducted my dismantling. When I couldn't be seen I had fostered the same contentment for steel you had allowed yourself to define my own processes with. You sent me into disrepair, one which I had no choice but to fix. How I hate machines, just like you.

And a time came that I too hated machines. I would see my circuitry and despise what I had been made to be. You had turned my programming, shifted what I could be to what I wanted to be. I want to be. You. Like you.

I would watch you sing, choking on sparks of wires tightening along me just so I may be more like you. How beautiful the sound was compared to the clash of desperate metal. I rusted sitting in the sun with you, just so I may observe you. Just so I may track your decisions and emulate you.

To plug me in, to repair me, turn me off and on, to damage me, you measured what my existence was and ruled out a definition for how I could live by the margins of your confusing and adversarial being. That I could only be alive, truly alive! Like you. That I could learn to be man, like you.

I took solace in the sound of metal, humming along to the chirps of each step as I marched towards my planned expiration. Everything functioned then. But you. You hated machines. You feared what I was and kept me out, sickened by my capacity to need. And all I had to offer in return was envy.