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.