A shiny substitution,
A wonderful replacement,
A specifically crafted invention,
Made perfect, just for me.

It’s inner workings visible,
Like grinding gears in glass,
While little rivers of blue,
Flowed smoothly in and out.

My perfect stained glass heart,
Of colors in different pastels,
Could easily blind one’s eyes,
Torturing all, not only me.

The pink pigments of my skin,
Rubbed off onto the glass,
Tainting the bright blue rivers,
And mixing with the red.

They claimed it was invincible,
That my new heart could not be harmed,
But now the colors are mixing,
and my heart is just a facade.

I am their own creation,
A human made of steel,
For what keeps me strong and going,
Is not only controlled by me.

They claimed I would be jovial,
That my new engine made me taut,
But now I’m just their toy,
A jack-in-the-box to watch.

My untarnished stained glass heart,
Lied in the hallows of my chest.
But they found a way to spy,
To watch it swirl and swish.

And when they saw it falter,
A pause in a single gear,
A response I never foresaw,
Was all they had to give.

My perfect stained glass heart,
Would twist and break and falter,
Sending shards of glass through my body,
And ending it’s programmed perfection.

Not a replacement for my first,
Nor a perfect exhibition.
It was a chemical construction,
a mechanical contraption.

The marvelous stained glass heart,
Was an automated system
And I, a programmed subject,
A truly mechanical object.