I’m like that myth about the sculptor who so loved the woman he sculpted from marble that the gods granted her life – only the opposite. I’m not stone becoming human, I’m human becoming stone; and as my flesh grows cold and hard I fear your love too will diminish instead of grow. Perhaps in this version of the tale it was a divine punishment, not a blessing, which set these events in motion. Did I so offend some goddess of love that she would curse me to never experience the kind of desire one expects from their beloved? Is it justice, this lacking which alienates me from the rest of humanity? I would not wish this affliction on anyone, so perhaps this is indeed a retribution I deserve.
No one asked if I wanted to be born a flower; I just was. If they had asked I would have begged to be anything else. Make me a moss! I’d have pleaded. Make me a grass or a tree! Make me a succulent, a shrub, a clump of seaweed! Just please don’t make me a flower. But here I am anyway, consigned by mere biological chance to the constant appraisal of others. I didn’t want these pretty petals! I didn’t want this lovely scent! I only ever wanted to grow alone and undisturbed, giving no thought to how I might appear to others. Yet because of my pleasing aesthetic I am good for nothing more than gracing a vase or a bouquet, or perhaps crushing between the pages of a book so my beauty lasts long after I’ve died and dried. I am only the sum of what value others assign me and the higher the value, the more they desire to tear me from my roots to claim my loveliness for themselves. Oh, to be a patch of plain little lichen!
I don’t perform emotions correctly; many have made this perfectly clear. I guess sometimes I look unhappy even when I’m having fun, so they think I’m lying when I say I’m fine. I don’t cry at appropriate times, like gestures of affection or funerals or whatever, only for unacceptable reasons like grocery shopping or well-intentioned teasing. I guess I don’t look properly enraptured by a pretty face, even when I really do find the person attractive, so I must be lying. Someone as broken as I am can’t possibly be trusted to accurately comprehend their emotions, after all. This inability to behave properly is such a burden on those around me, and I know they wonder why I can’t act normally for once. I’m sorry. The secret is, I’m just a robot with a passable human emotional protocol but I’m not convincing enough to hide my artificiality completely. A machine, especially such an outdated one as myself, can only be so realistic when compared to a living being with a heart and a soul. All I have are the brain bits, and at the end of the day those aren’t worth shit to real people. Who wants to be with someone intelligent but emotionally stunted? (Spoiler alert: no one.) I mean, did you feel bad when your Tamagotchi died? What about when you got rid of your Furby? A little, probably, but deep down you knew it didn’t actually experience emotions; it was just programmed to seem like it did. Artifice. Clever artifice, but still just artifice.
You know, I always hated the story of Pinocchio so it’s kind of ironic that I find myself wishing desperately to be a real girl – or at least that you saw me as a real girl and not a robot failing to make the grade. I feel real, is that not enough? Or could I peel back my skin and find circuit boards underneath?
Which motherfucking star do I have to wish on to not be me anymore?
Put me in a sideshow, it’s where I belong. All the people who have heard about freaks like me can come pay fifty cents to stare at me through the bars of my cage. They’ll ooh and ah, gasp and point. When I try to explain myself they’ll snicker behind their hands, Look, it thinks it’s people! You’re wrong, though. I don’t. You’ve finally forced it through my thick skull that I’m not one of you. But at least here you’re all laughing at my face and not my back, right? And maybe someone will throw peanuts to me out of pity.