Anodyne

If steel could shatter, she’d have splintered long ago.  Her pieces scattered across the bathroom floor and it’s gotten to a point where, even if she had known how to put herself back together, she wouldn’t have bothered.  Not because she hates herself, but because she honestly doesn’t care.  She can’t.  Machines don’t know how.

The golden ratio was never meant for mankind.  It’s turned her surreal, too defined and too sharp, vaguely terrifying and the mind can’t grasp it and is destroyed if it ponders for too long.  It may have happened to hers, but she can’t remember anymore. 

Cheek icy against his warm hand, a threatening hand or a loving hand it doesn’t matter they’re both the same now.  Traveling in a smooth arc she can’t gauge the speed, is it a slap or a caress or both it could be both they feel the same.  Ache of empty arms to soothe her closer and mistreat whatever's left.

She can still bleed and it’s still red and that’s surprising.  Red is vital, red is alive, she doesn’t feel like either.  Wouldn’t she be suited more to metallic silver?  Or burnt orange, rusted and corroded?  Something oily?  Something cancerous?  Could the heart pump what would kill it?  Ah, too delicate, the heart.  Mere words could lance it through the very center. 

Not hers.  Not anymore.

The lips and the heart, both easily smothered.  Cloth over mouth and fear over the tenderest muscle.  Lack of air and they both turn a lovely shade of asphyxia, and she stopped breathing years ago.  Shaded purple coloring her shadow long gone too emaciated and sharp, joints edged harsh enough to cut skin.  It got in her blood.  Perhaps she could bleed it out?  If there were any veins left to cut that is how could they not have collapsed under the weight of this error that’s stretching it’s fingers farther into her than she could have possibly foreseen leaving nothing but enthralling anesthetic that turns pain into sugar?

If there’s anything alive under the surface it’s untellable from the outside and you’d have to see it to believe it.  She can’t remember how there ever could be because this emptiness stretches too far back and distorts every last one of her memories but perhaps a surgical slit from throat to navel would reveal more…

The switch left her numb; blush of heated flesh to unforgiving platinum was a shock if she still had wants she’d have wished to go back.  Tongue, fingers, knees.  All bruised, but the anodyne worked and machines can’t cry anyway.  Even if there were tears, she’s too far gone for them to mean a thing.  Purple moons ‘neath her eyes stark on sallow skin veined blue gaunt cheeks reddened mouth hard shiny filigree metal and unyielding but breaking and falling and falling and falling apart shouldn’t have thrown away the manual even machines break down eventually lose their function malfunction all alone now short circuiting mechanical failure couldn’t love it anymore than a broken toy knowing nothing can fix what’s incomplete unmoving and still the eyes still blinking the chest still lifting-

“What’s wrong with you?  You’re like a robot.”

No, a machine.  A cold machine. 

Hadn’t she always been?  Why so surprised?