They drew up the blueprints before I was born, disregarding the girl they intended to shape. They drew up the plans for a perfect body. A house, a car, a city- and a girl’s body. We are all the same, these machines and I; toys for him to play with. But those other toys are expensive and valuable; they must be cared for. I am low maintenance. I am disposable. They drew up the blueprints for this perfect body, and printed it helpfully on the pages of magazines. They modeled it in the form of Barbie dolls with missing limbs, empty eyes- and perfect skin. They contained it in weight loss pills and bottled perfection. They had no time for a custom design; these plans were standard, photocopied from the files of tv shows and blockbuster stars. But then they saw their blueprints were flawed; they had forgotten the insides. They tried to fill me up, last minute, with leftovers. My insides filled up with the same poison as on the outside; thoughts of sexiness and thoughts of Him, perfection mixed with starvation. But the clockwork only ground harder against itself, twisted around itself. The outer shell’s perfect proportions grew shrunken and warped. I moved out of rhythm, and I ran to the only source of power they had placed in my head. I ran to him. And then I ran to another him. I want from him to him to him, and he took me until he saw the twisted clockwork inside and tossed me in the scrap heap. And then the gears turned one last time and my glass skeleton shattered.
“S***.” They said. But I am disposable.