Every robot has a switch she can't reach

First they drilled my cavities away,

enamel dust rising through sunset air

and inside the holes: my first metal.

It tasted like blood

and not like teeth—

shadows where white once grew.

A year on, they pierced

my skin again—

needles followed earrings.

My new spikes keep men away

and attract women used

to bleeding.

I’m safer outside,

but sleeping is hard

covered in sharpness.

I lie on my side,

my stomach, sit awake

watching the moon for days.

I ask for claws next,

hard steel on my toes,

iron on my ladylike hands.

I climb trees, fill my spikes

with needles and leaves,

snap birds in amalgam teeth.

Blood tastes less than it used to

when skin was all I wore.

They take out my vertebrae

turn my kneecaps inside out

lay plates over my offensive breasts.

Rivets instead of pimples,

mail over muscle

I clink and rattle and scrape.

Heavier, I move slower

leaking oil, drooling polish

over my perfect, reflective chin.

I no longer know

where the men went

who offered to change me.

In this metal world I see

only women like me

struggling to walk

under all our glamorous weight.