Morning Light

They say all the great enchantments end at mid night, the pumpkin is no longer a carriage and the mice are but vermin again. The princess that was is back at work and happily ever after is far far away. Morning light raises the world and murders me, I am the automation, no longer a real woman but this single purpose built mechanism, it looks flesh and feels flesh but underneath inside its eyes, everything is dead. It mouths the words and smiles the smiles, it can look its great desire in the face and feel naught.

Under the cool silver light of the moon, I dance wanton flesh and blood. I feel so much my skin strains too hold me in. I ache for that which I desire, I hunger and I thirst but most of all I feel. I feel the strains of song inside my arms, I feel great big heart beats and my senses jump like lightening strikes when I imagine your face. My sensory memory is knife point sharp and every curve of your body runs me through. I see all your angles and waltz with the long slivers of your memories. I cut myself open on the clean edges of my want. The crazy strums of slick need crawl inside my mind like acid trips, I loose my self imagining the myriad manner I would love you. Whole hours are lost contemplating your fine made beauties, just the sounds of your speech and the feel of you smiling against my skin. This wild
hearted woman dreams of discovery, what steals your smile and how I could bring it back. What makes you weep and how I would erase it, like it never was. I imagine taking your hand and walking the world, freedom, celebrations and creation. Sometimes on dark nights, I think I see eyes like yours and skin like mine, hybrid variety. I don't know where we will end up, I know simply and succinctly I want to take the journey by your side.

Then as dawn paints the sky I become she. Just the mechanics to carry around its cold logic. It clicks and whirs into action. This mechanism knows whats must be done and what must be said. This automation is fire and power. It surges through life, fulfilling its makers work and even though it looks like me, it is naught but a shell. A golem with a heart of survival, it is all blast and flame. This automation will not cross the lines and stays inside what is expected and exceeds the expectations of what a human may do because it is not human. It is the apex of my creation and its mechanical smiles fool most into thinking, it is alive. Not many look close enough to see for this automation keeps them all at bay and so they all say: that woman, they mean that machine. For it feels naught and thinks only in numbers. It has the most amazing capacity for pain and none for joy. the shell of its clavicle is silent as the ticking mechanism of its heart died long ago, only the steam of its own ambition directive powers it now. It makes stacks of things, how they glitter gleam and everyone wonders at all this mechanism has achieved.

At night when I am me, one would think I would dread the dawn, dread becoming she but I don't. Because through her cold eyes, is the only time you will smile at me. I stopped hating she when I realized you prefer her to me. Now she is the apex of my hopes and each morning I change earlier into she, soon I will no longer be me and there will be only SHE . . .