Occasionally I am punished but I do nothing wrong.
I do only what those chewed up fingers tell me to.
I get shoved into blades and sliced around a million times
and when I think it’s over--
I get forced into that dark place again as it peels my skin into shrivels.
And for my juicy booty, I imagined it would be sort of a sacred thing for me.
But I am violated almost everyday!
Pounded, scraped down and all my hard work doing squats in my box
go down the drain.
Did I mention, there has been cases of those creepy fingers chewing up BOOTY’S!
Just ripping them off bodies like it’s something replaceable.
I mean, it can be replaceable with a surgical cap but once it’s gone it will NEVER be the same.
My father always called me 2. But I hated number 2 and I wanted to be number 5.
When I asked him to change it, he said that and Mr. MCAS wouldn’t accept me for who I am.
I have a fear of not being accepted, like I will be a failure to everyone who uses me.
I try my best to be tough, hold in my tears so I won’t break and when I do break, an earthquake strikes.
The gentle grip of the chewed up fingers becomes aggressive.
One time, I even saw my cousin get MURDERED. Snapped right in half and his blood was gushing out everywhere!
I could even see his S-P-I-N-E.
Art class is peaceful for me. Those fingers value me and my hard work with every stride.
Just so perfect and gentle.
The sky is silent and all I hear are my cousins jumping with joy, proud of everything they’re creating.
One hand is actually very abusive. He skids me across the paper like I’m nothing. But that isn’t the first time that has occurred.
Here’s a bit of a funny story,
It’s hard for me write numbers and letters on the same paper. One day the fingers wanted to add some shapes too. What do you think this is? I’m not a brainiac. So I decided to be the jerk that I can be and confused thhhheee HECK out of him. (hahaha) so I started writing (square equals a circle plus two so katherine ate twenty seven computers minus the square root of eight). I realized that was a bad idea.
Moral of the story is I became homeless that night. Sleeping on the cold ground waiting fingers to pick me up the next morning.
I have always wished that I could be like Mrs. Pen.
Everyone treats her like she is some sacred queen..
Holding her so carefully and they never pass her around like she’s some dinner plate at the table.
She belongs to one hand and one hand only. Those fingers never just toss her on the ground left to die and starve during the cold nights... she’s always cared for.
But then again she is stronger than I have ever been. Ms. Pens murders never consists of spine bleedings.. Only maybe like... She lost her breath.. Or she doesn’t have enough saliva to breathe.
How ever.. Not everyone is made to be what they wish.
All I ask is to at least, be treated like Ol man Mechanical.
At least he gets more love than I ever will.”