Listen.
Do you hear it?
The whispers concealed amongst,
the rustling of papers,
about that girl,
the one who's actually a machine.
Watch.
How every day in class
She'd ask the smartest questions,
She'd always score the top grade,
She'd leave the teachers with the best impression.
Everybody knows her name.
Wonder,
to yourself,
how she stayed so perfect,
never a question on a worksheet left blank,
never an answer that was stupid or wrong.
Talk
with this infallible creation.
only to be be blown away
by her insightful thoughts.
The rumours must be true:
She has to be a machine.
Now that she trusts you,
listen again,
to her quiet voice,
as she whispers about how her family
would sit on the couch,
watching the weekend comedies,
whilst she stayed locked up in her room,
studying for yet another test,
because somehow that couch,
never seemed to have room for one more.
Now that you know her,
Watch carefully,
and you'll catch that glint in her eyes,
two glazed pools about to leak,
when she excuses herself from class,
to use the restroom.
Now that you are involved,
Wonder to yourself,
Why during yesterday's class discussion,
she talked about numbness being the best shield,
to cushion the heart from pain.
What is she hiding?
Now that you care,
Talk to her,
after the bell has gone,
when the class is empty,
as she lays her head down on the table,
and removes the batteries,
that have kept her functioning throughout the day,
And gaze helplessly,
as her wimpering turns to sobs.
Don't listen with the intent to reply,
listen with the hope of understanding.
You will see for yourself:
the machine is breaking down.
Not many have tried to fix her,
to lubricate the gears,
to tighten the screws and bolts,
or even repair the sputtering motor
Try,
I dare you to,
And you'll know it's not that simple;
for this machine has a heart:
that no mechanic can repair,
nor can the most acclaimed technician rewire.
Realise,
She's not a machine,
Nothing like one at all,
Just a girl who needed some love,
In a world where it doesn't seem to exist.
