I am a girl. I am a real girl and my flesh is made of tender wires.
I am real. I am a real girl and my blood buzzes.
The television slots in perfectly between my eyes. The skin peels. The screen delivers.
Engulfed in the madness, I receive holiness. God wants me to be a machine. Reality is in a hidey-hole underneath the couch. I open it up—it’s not much to look at. Why do you think God made me what I am? Do you think God made me? I think God made you.