Part 1

I wonder through the plasticity of my skin,

And the little cuts I’ve made to hide

My weapons of some minor destruction –

A smile here, to accentuate the frigidity in my eyes,

Bisous to remember

all the tender

ways in which I will never

touch again

The womandroidal trick of compressing

the distance across the Milky Way at its widest point

between my brown lips and his cheeks

he feels the wormhole acidic roller coaster rush of

everything he never knew

he could never know

and can never know

our goodbyes are always hasty.

Part 2

My lover knows that I keep

tiny twin knives from the 26th century

in the slivered, removable skins of my palms

sometimes you’ll see them itch,

or clench into tiny fists,

they feel a bit like splinters

or the way people carry sandy beaches with them,

between their fingers,


after the first



I come from a different time,
I tell him seriously.

“We’re all people!” He insists, frantic and distressed.

I smile, and feel the frost

build on the inside curve of my corneas.

He shivers, and asks me if the temperature suddenly dropped,

and nervously looks at my fingers, hidden in my jean pockets

he does it suddenly –

takes my wrists in his pale fingers, and kisses each open palm,

nose tickling my wrist.

I jerk free, the silence too fast:

his lips scorch the plastic of my skin into the oily mixture

you find at car accidents, the horrific images of people who

know what it’s like to be welded alive.

There is a truth he shows me,

every time he kisses my vulnerabilities:

All he has to fear from me are shivers, and

the way I take his breath away.

All I have to fear from him are

slivers in my own skin, hiding knives

I might cut myself with

Part 3

But I will remember – always remember –  the dream-transmission

sent across space and time to catch brainwaves as

I slept one night:

She said:

Do not forget that ghosts still rattle through the metal of your bones,

Enough to haunt the living flesh around you, a lifelike reality

of a shadow-world you know your

lover feels under the surface of his own,

You must remember:

he is always more capable

than you will let yourself believe

of excising bone from metal, though you insist you are both

and he is always more capable

than your always-steady heart can feel,

of peeling your shadowprints from his skin.

So: do not fool yourself

And do not forget that part of you is grey machine,
that occasionally shimmers under your thin skin,
silver circles of fatigue under your eyes.

This entry was posted in poetry, scifi and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

1 Response to Womandroid

  1. xenologer says:

    I feel like this is the story of my life. So important.


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