Am I perfect yet?

Am I fully finished?

I feel—

Nothing, really

No emotions plague me

I just want it to stop

I just want my creator

To finally

See me as something

**Worthy**

Of their love

I’ve read about love

And families and children

Are they the parent?

Taking care of me

With the pricking

And prodding of my skin

The constant tear and stitches of limbs

Eye modifications

Lip, ears

Are they the parent,

Taking care of their small child?

I don’t think so

I don’t even know why I’m here

Why my creator chose

To create something

Such as me

A doll

I’ve seen pictures, read books

I looked exactly like those things

Porcelain steel

Eyes that were more blank

Than clear paper

Painted lips on my robotic face

But I have a heart

Not like the other mechanical ones

I see in my creators other creations

My heart is beating,

A soft, squishy muscle inside my chest

Is that why my creator chose to keep me still?

Because I am somewhat like them?

Because I have the same muscle in my chest?

I don’t know

I don’t know why they cry at night

Holding me tight in their bed

I don’t understand why they whisper

“Darling” into my ears with such fever

I don’t understand why I look so

**Much**

Like the woman in their old, blurry photos

What am I?

Why am I still here?

Why do I have a heart, but nothing else

Like them?

Like my creator

Like the people, characters in

My books, my shows?

What AM I?!

My heart beats rapidly

And my creator jumps as they check on my monitor

“Holly! Holly, darling, calm down! What’s wrong?” They come up to me where I sit at our kitchen table, fork in hand, food untouched, taking my metallic hands into their own fleshy, warm ones. “What’s one? Do I need to change something else?”

I shake my head, heart pounding faster. Hot beads of water well up in my eyes. “What am I! I’m not normal, am I? **_WHAT AM I????_**”

They shake their head and kiss the tears on my cheek. The warmth of their lips calm me for a single moment, and I take my hands from theirs to wipe my face.

“Oh dear,” they sigh, “it seems your memory core is acting up again, Holly.” They peer into my eyes; my eyes zoom into their face unconsciously to see more.

“You’re my wife, dear, even in death and recreation—you are my wife.”

***

(Three hours of sleep did me well! I feel **_so _**much better. Thank you for reading and have a great day! 😊)