Ella era una chica plástica
It dances, limbs acting as synchronized paintbrushes, filling the air with ambitious strokes for being. It is beautiful. Its carefully crafted countenance was made to please as well as entertain. Constantly it flows through its mockery of life, of it patented brand of artificial autonomy. Once it wasn’t, no once it was more. Once it was a she. Porcelain surface was tan skin, and synthetic body was made of bone and blood. Her name is long forgotten, as is the reason for her pitiful state. But people speculate. They go to observe it move in tune to a non existent song, and gossip. Everyone assumes she deserved her fate, everyone assumes she must of done something horrible, everyone agrees she must have been someone horrible. But no one knows. No one knows except the it. The it that was once a she.