No, not like a rocket,
More like a present, cannon-balled into insanity.
Touching her like she’s real,
(Idiot. Robot’s can’t feel).
Your garden doesn’t grow,
So don’t even assume you’d know.
She sat paralyzed amongst weeds,
You pricked her, stabbed her, and cut at her heels.
She’ll walk when you turn around,
and laugh at your bitter frown.
Because even though she can’t be up next to you,
(Which isn’t what she wants) she’d rather be amongst manure,
Because even that has more honesty, than you could ever have.

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