Through the shadows of the hallways,
She walks, surrounded by whispers:
"Glitch," is the her name, they say,
but her heat, her soul, never turns crisper.
Wires strung under her skin like veins,
Brain, electrodes of green code.
They say she doesn't understand pain.
Her youth is on a permanent hold.
Heart of copper.
Blood of potassium.
Brain of extraterrestrial material.
Seeing her mechanical code,
She'll fall in so easily,
And rust her machinery to no point of return.
Look at that girl,
The one who sits alone,
The one you call weird.
She is not a glitch.
She is not an alien.
I'm a writer.