Pending Vending Machine


Her A5 is sold out, and B9 is the least favorite of the
hands that continuously feed her so that they may
gain what they want. Her out of order sign was ripped
away and discarded -- ignored. She receives finger
punches from familiar hands that were supposed to
caress, but forgot along the way what they were there
for. Her body trembles from accepting their worries --
and regurgitating pieces of herself that will make them
feel whole. The angry red marks that bruise her soul
are of no concern to anyone else, and she ins't even
sure if they are to her either. That thought alone
pulls her deeper and she wonders if she would leave if
given the chance? Would she strip away the labels and
choices others always seek from her and find freedom in
her bareness?
Could she feel again if touches were gone --
does her heart work at all,
or is she flowing on auto-pilot through her life
just to ensure she is able to deliver when called upon?
Does she get to pick from herself as well? Or is this
all for the benefit of others? And if it is -- if she
was placed on this planet to offer small measures of
happiness to lost souls that pass through her common
area, will it ever fulfill her? Or is she pre-loaded --
with everything but the will to care for herself first?

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