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Robot Girl

From the turmoiled age of thirteen, she has rebuilt herself, piece by piece, into something far less inconvenient. When her father told her she was too sensitive, she plucked the tear ducts from her face and replaced them with a rolodex. When her mother scolded her for being stubborn, she sawed her fists off at the wrists, crafted fingers out of letter keys. When her friends left her, she traded her arms and legs for great bundles of cord, her feet for sticky pads, her chest for a cabinet with a key. Her ears she swapped for satellites, and she fashioned eyes from telescopes. She gave up her stomach, then her lungs, her pelvis, her uterus, her head. The last thing she pawned off was her still-throbbing heart, and she stuffed her empty drawers with manuals instead. How to Eat, How to Date, How to Breathe When You’re Panicking. How to Sleep. How to Cope. You’re Still You When You’re Alone.

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