Matthew: The Machine Boyfriend

Hinges for hands, stencils for thickness, pipe for arms and legs–metal, not plastic or wood. Hollow, like my brother’s skull, and thick, like my boyfriend’s.
Matthew’s hinges are always snapping–snapping for my skirt, my hair, my face. His jewel-stoned eyes are onyx, black and small. They never blink, his eyes, only stare and stare until he sparks and looks away. His small and round door-knocker mouth is hardly ever still, and at times it crosses my mind to take it, knock it against his face, and demand to know if anyone is home. His wiring hair is made up of all sorts of colors and thicknesses; some are as thick as telephone cords, while other, shorter strands are like house wires. My favorite is the single purple strand, which stands up like a marker at times, warning me of when he is angry. His lips are cork-screw material and squishy, they get that way from the oil that must be constantly applied to his door-knocker mouth for movement. His feet are made of wood, making dancing an impossibility.
Matthew does have a joy stick and a couple of mouse balls, but the stick seems so unnatural, and anyway, it’s too soon to tell for how long this relationship will really last.
It is hard to have a boyfriend whose belly is always ice cold, whose arms are rock-solid, and whose grip is like a socket wrench on a nut. Hugging is an obstacle course like no other. I love my Matthew Machine, even if it is only for his hand-hinges. Although his skin is tougher than my teapot, it is smoother and hairless than my own legs after a thorough shave. His non-existent nose makes my silent-but-deadly farts no problem. And anyway, the radio in his head makes being with him romantic. When we are out marching on the beach he can play a slow love song, or a quick-paced tango, although neither one of us has the ability to dance. It makes our relationship a little more realistic.

His Room

His Room
Light-colored,
soft rug cushions the
sound
As I jump
from his high wooden bed.
The center of the room is like a
f l o o d
of papers, books and
clothing.
The books on his
shelves
Are sci-fi and fantasy,
Starwars and The Golden Compass.
Posing as a writer,
the boy has writing books
and writes
only
for class.
The blankets on his bed are
thin and rough
Like his body–
the flat belly, the flaming strands of hair.
His curtains are plain
cotton
checkered.
His door is kept open
a little–
Like him–
not closed, but not
w i d e open
Just there–
waiting to be slammed
shut.

Happy-career

Every day there is a new question to be asked, a new problem just begging for a solution. Today that question is troubling, as most of mine about the future are: can I, as a creative, independent and semi-self-conscious individual, become a journalist? Never in my life have I wanted this. I've never liked people very much and, frankly, neither did they. Now I am faced with this dilemma, and it seems to be the only scenario: major in Journalism and become a journalist or major in English and become a teacher. Teaching? ME??? Oh no, what has happened to the world!
My purely fantastical option is to become a freelancer, start my own magazine or newspaper, and just shoot as high as I can, while walking dogs on the side. Forever it seems I have wanted to become a writer--but never did I imagine I would need to write all the time, and write well. I also wanted to be a singer. A Vet. A wildlife biologist. An ethologist. I want a love, a family, a career, and a life, in that order. I guess it's kind of backwards, but it's what I've come to believe is the only way to survive. Priorities have been shifted while others have simply been dropped. My mother, a lawyer, my father, the owner of a car lot.
Jobs involving work with other people never go right. We never get along. I get along with the customers, not the employees, I cater to the people behind the counter, not the ones I stand with. it might be an ego-thing. I'm jealous that they don't have to work where I am, I want them to be happy, so when I get out, maybe I'll be happy too.

Autopsych breakdown

She is smooth on the outside; bright headlights, softly treaded tires, shining hubs.  Her body appears dent-free as every chip has been painted over easily.  She runs smoothly, engine humming a sweet melody to the landmarks she passes, and to the men who judge her.  

The one man treats her with respect; keeping her on-road and away from potholes and the big rocks that pepper the street.  Sometimes he forgets who she is, and he drives her onto the side of the road where she hisses and sputters, and he fumes in return.  It is times like these that he realizes just how weathered his beauty's interior truly is--the crumpled tissues in the corner of the front seat; the several missing seatbelts, clipping device sticking out haphazardly; the glove box, held closed with a short bungee cord; torn leather seats.  

Now she'll refuse to run.  Her starter can be testy when she feels ill-treated.  He normally tries to ignore the flashing "Check Engine" sign, as she herself so often does, because although he knows she needs a tune-up something fierce, she denies it every time she runs, and every time she heats the interior, although that system is rarely ever workable.

She can go for miles and miles without puttering out and breaking down, but those times in between can be dull and lengthy--her anger is not untested, her irritations blatantly expressed.  She grows more angry when he does not seem to notice that her voice is deepening, the engine is rattling harsher, and the brake pedal is sinking to the floor.  At these times her fury increases, and he is often startled when he loses control of the wheel, and suddenly she goes crashing into the bank, sometimes nearly killing him.  

He continues to drive her, unperturbed.  The both of them will continue to ignore their "Check Sanity" signs, until he or she makes the final crash, and neither makes it through.