Letting My Monsters Out

Poem 17: Robots

I give my everything to anyone who asks.
Anyone who asks for everything never gives back anything.
I'm led to believe that everyone who never gives back has nothing to give
Because I cannot believe that any human that has something would never give back anything to one who gave everything.

It is inhuman and so you all must be poor
Or you must not be human.
When I was little I believed I wasn't human.
I'd play pretend as a robot alien sent to the Earth to save my kind.
As I've grown older I've come to believe I'm not the robot, but the rest of the world is.
Robots are cold and selfish.
Their DNA- their coding is the instinct to survive.
To be cold and ruthless.
To give only what is necessary and to take beyond capacity.

I'll give my heart, which they do not need to beat.
I'll give the last breath from my lungs, which they do not need to breathe.
I'll give every drop of blood, which they do not need pumping through their wires.
I'll give my voice, which they do not need to feel at peace.
I'll give my legs, which they do not need to feel freedom.
I'll give my mind, which they do not need to be infinitely more intelligent.
I'll give everything, because as a human I will give whatever I can give,
And they will take it all, because it is their nature to take.

In the end I fear I will become a robot as well because the only thing the robots will give is metal.
They will be giddy with anticipation for the day I am metal with them
Because that will mean they took everything I had.

They want to know they killed the last human.

I am either the last human
Or all the others are empty and have nothing left to give.
I must believe you are all poor
Because if you are not then I am alone in a cold metal world
Giving my all to machines that are designed to consume.

And soon I will become one of them.

I gave my breath and I suffocate.
I gave my heart and I froze.
I gave my blood and I grow numb.
I gave my mind and I am dumb.
I gave my voice and I have no words.
I gave my legs and I am trapped.
All that is left is my flesh,
And they are picking it part layer by layer
Because perhaps they wish to be human,
And wearing one's skin is the closest they will come.
I give because I am human,
And because I give, I will lose my humanity.

So this is my call– my desperate plea to any humans left..
With anything..
I beg of you to give me something back.
Perhaps a heart,
Though I'll settle for a vein.
Maybe a leg,
Though I'll settle for a toe.
I'd love my voice,
Though I'll settle for a word.
I will take something– anything–

Does this make me more of a machine than I thought?
Am I a robot for being desperate for anything human? Or are they human, for desperately fearing their metal.

I would figure this out on my own,
But I gave my mind, and so I can not think.