My hair is still beautiful. Soft, shiny and brilliant with highlights. Despite this, my husband choose to become an automaton. He grew a switch between his legs,like a stick from the granny smith tree. On and off, up/down. He grew to be no fun. A stick in the mud.

Dangerous? I think so. Most stickmen are as wily and as unpredictable as a human with a soul.He grew to hate my soft arms and warm belly.I experienced chest pain from his unyielding metal trunk forcing me into tachycardia every time we fucked.He killed my cat and beat my dog. Still, I have to tell him I love him.

Always wants to gossip about Jesus. Won’t pray for rain. Afraid to live his own life. As emotionally stingy as any automaton. Can’t remember his mother or father. (Neither can I; perhaps they were not really ever there.) Likes his high- octane mediocrity.

I never smelled any scent on him but the gunpowder. Cordite, right? His pink cock like an ugly little turtle.If I press on my eyes it recedes. Memories have a protective coating that once in the mouth, dissolves.I lick at the edges, but it will never taste sweet again.