this big sexy regret machine

  What are her insides made of? Are they technical? Too technical to comprehend or take apart? Why does your curiosity have to overstep somebody’s boundaries? Are they intrusive or intuitive? Where does the soul come into the mechanical? How does the soul affect the mechanical? Where do the two intersect? Where do you learn that by questioning it, you’re still indulging this way of thinking?  Worst, and best case scenario, I admit, I think I have killed you. You’re there, sitting idly, watching me panic over you. I’m pacing confusedly about your assumedly dead body. You are fine. I will be fine. Your body is dead. The soul of you remains, patiently not yet reanimate. All things inanimate are full with soul, and this soul is built from the carbon of patience. I hate how you wait. Find something better to do. Don’t look at me with dead eyes, I’m busy. I’m making myself busy. I have things I want to write. Femnist literature output, high frequency. Nonsense writing, aff...