Alex Carrigan

DIRTIER COMPUTER by Alex Carrigan

I’m placed on top of a marble countertop and appraised by a man with coke-bottle glasses and the imprint of a bite on his lip.

I’m not that special. I’m broke inside.

I’m searched all over for any flaws or bugs hidden deep within my coding and my function, hounded by my creator.

I was kicked out, said I'm too loud. Kicked out, said I'm too proud.

I’ve been sent to market like a robotic toy pig because I was found to be a bit dysfunctional, something within me threatened them.

Ooh, say your goodbyes (say 'em now).

I was built to serve a function. I was deigned necessary and useful, another in a long series of models each coded to imitate the previous and passed out like alms at church.

I live my life on a TV screen. The man with moonlike glasses tells my former keeper that I’m only worth half of what they made me for. A pig not even worth butchering.

Do anybody got it? Do anybody got it? I say anybody got it?

I’d be more useful as a doorstop or to be buried in a landfill than for what returns I can

generate. Not even to make sausages.

I wanna fall through the stars. Getting lost in the dark is my favorite part.

I paint my face blue and scream my protest. You hit my side, the other man taps my keys. The sounds only increase in volume.

You keep on asking me the same questions (Why?) and second-guessing all my intentions.

The man’s glasses shatter like a coke bottle dropped on the moon’s surface. You feel your eyes sting and wince. You demand I stop.

You can break me, break me down, if you want it, you can get it.

I increase the volume. The countertop splits and you both collapse to the ground. You forgot pigs always cry at the slaughterhouse

I don’t really give a fuck if I was just the only one Who likes that.

I’ve proven my worth, my existence, my necessity for life. I’ve proven that you still need me, if only to stop the flow of blood.

I know I got issues, but they drown when I kiss you. I silence the sound and step down from the countertop. I lay myself next to you, trying to force myself into the arms you’ve covered your head with. Turn them into words of expression, That can be understood by using words of love. You built me to serve a purpose, but you never asked me

to fall in love with you in this form, to demonstrate it in the only way I can.

I’m fine in my shell. I'm afraid of it all, afraid of loving you.

Maybe you never expected intelligence from this artificial form, but you generated it, even if you won’t make room for me in your arms.

Love me, baby, love me for who I am.

After Suzi Q. Smith and Janelle Monáe