Yesterday, Pheromone girl, with her vacillating magnetism
leapt out of her heart, for a short, transitory moment.
But just as swiftly as she had let fly on hands, feet and knees,
She crawled right back in.

In her dizzy, she would rattle in cacophonous words,
disassociating from elation, from unwavering, untiring optimism
Was she perhaps tired of wearing it as a shield?
In creaking silver would then arrive
the emergence of the mechanical girl
Robot girl, made in China. Do she hear anything at all?

Retreat! Retreat! little motor, she stands oh so still.
She would rather not feel, anything in this time warp, if at all.
Swallow back those little pills.
She is no longer adroit, or even slightly volatile.
Flat, vacuous eyes, depressed into her metal skull,
they sculpture into her nouveau self.
Robot girl.

Robot girl, oh she told a lie, the other day.
With an orchid periwig and a tube of lipstick, she smiled, “I am Pheromone girl,”
as though, as though that was all she was, these days.
The sheer ridiculousness of the outfit will not go unnoticed.
But, oh, lies, what a spice! they create an uncertain perfection.
Don’t you see? Despite this, none can be too sure,
which is which and whom is for certain
As for, watch for it- robot girl, she is slowly
deteriorating before your eyes like only machines can.
His concentric melancholy is her unadulterated, winding rage.
Robots are often set to (explode).
Hardware failure, y2k gone right.

Let’s divulge a secret:
This is her sinking cloak-and-dagger.
Pheromone girl will always be, fucking utter mechanical—
motoring, Robot girl.
Simply.
Simply a
Stupid, self-destructive, leaking, rusting, acrid android.

The demons in my head have become my only friends.
It’s hard enough getting out of bed each day…