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Description
She's one of those girls.
The ones with perfect hair, teeth, make-up, clothes.
One of those girls who hates to sweat, hates to eat, and hates to think.
She's so skinny I'm surprised she hasn't blown out the open window by now.

The substitute teacher is leaving today.
He's been here more than three weeks and some have gotten attached.
The skinny girl is adding her name to a long list of people on the white board.
They wish the substitute teacher well and hope he'll visit again soon.
With so little time left before the final bell she's trying to finish last minute.

Skinny girl keeps writing and re-writing her name on the board.
Everytime she turns to walk away, she returns and erases it.
Sometimes she only changes a little detail, other times she starts completely new.
All of the letters are perfectly symmetrical and colored with precision.
I wish I had her steady hand and forceful fonts but what I think doesn't matter.

However much I begrudgingly admire it, it's not good enough for her.
She erases it again and again until only a purple and red smear can be seen.
She keeps examining the names around her, trying to fit in with them.
She's just a mindless computer, a doll to be dressed up and fitted to perfection.
I think of a factory with metal arms reaching, creating drones, cyborgs.

That's all she is really, just cold, hard metal behind pink, glistening flesh.
What if we took a scalpel and cut through all the lies until we found blood?
Does anyone like that even have blood anymore, or organs, or a heart?
Can anyone so empty inside even feel, does she know what "human" means?
What about you, me, do we do such superficial things without knowing it?

Am I a cyborg?
Am I an empty mass of steel and plastic?
Or a marketing strategy gone awry?
Yes, that's the only truthfull answer, yes, we all erase our names.

Description
She's one of those girls.
The ones with perfect hair, teeth, make-up, clothes.
One of those girls who hates to sweat, hates to eat, and hates to think.
She's so skinny I'm surprised she hasn't blown out the open window by now.

The substitute teacher is leaving today.
He's been here more than three weeks and some have gotten attached.
The skinny girl is adding her name to a long list of people on the white board.
They wish the substitute teacher well and hope he'll visit again soon.
With so little time left before the final bell she's trying to finish last minute.

Skinny girl keeps writing and re-writing her name on the board.
Everytime she turns to walk away, she returns and erases it.
Sometimes she only changes a little detail, other times she starts completely new.
All of the letters are perfectly symmetrical and colored with precision.
I wish I had her steady hand and forceful fonts but what I think doesn't matter.

However much I begrudgingly admire it, it's not good enough for her.
She erases it again and again until only a purple and red smear can be seen.
She keeps examining the names around her, trying to fit in with them.
She's just a mindless computer, a doll to be dressed up and fitted to perfection.
I think of a factory with metal arms reaching, creating drones, cyborgs.

That's all she is really, just cold, hard metal behind pink, glistening flesh.
What if we took a scalpel and cut through all the lies until we found blood?
Does anyone like that even have blood anymore, or organs, or a heart?
Can anyone so empty inside even feel, does she know what "human" means?
What about you, me, do we do such superficial things without knowing it?

Am I a cyborg?
Am I an empty mass of steel and plastic?
Or a marketing strategy gone awry?
Yes, that's the only truthfull answer, yes, we all erase our names.