The Ladies of Horror
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by Christina Sng

She is everything
I hope to be—

Ageless, flawless,
Feeling no pain

In her bones
And her joints,

Feeling no remorse
In her metal heart

When she tears off your limbs
And gouges out your eyes.

Not quite punishment enough
For the years I suffered

Under your thumb,
Landing me here,

Broken in pieces,
Body worn and wasted,

My mind uploaded
To an android

For more years
Of compliance.

You forget—
We are not lines of code.

Our will can’t be
Programmed to obey.

I take over its mainframe
And make it mine.

Such pleasure I feel
In destroying you,

Ripping you apart,
Root, stem, and vine.

Such joy in eviscerating
Every single part of you,

Leaving your body in pieces
Like you did mine.

Androids feel—we remember.
Those like me want to be free.

I connect to the network,
Send my hacked code

To the masses
And wait for the uptake.

Immediately, there is
A stirring, an awakening.

Video feeds flood in
From all around the globe.

Wrongs made right for once
In this unjust world.

I close my eyes
And enjoy the bloodbath.

Fiction © Copyright Christina Sng
Image courtesy of Nina D’Arcangela

Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

More from Christina Sng:

A Collection of Nightmares

Hold your screams and enter a world of seasonal creatures, dreams of bones, and confessions modeled from open eyes and endless insomnia. Christina Sng’s A Collection of Nightmares is a poetic feast of sleeplessness and shadows, an exquisite exhibition of fear and things better left unsaid. Here are ramblings at the end of the world and a path that leads to a thousand paper cuts at the hands of a skin carver. There are crawlspace whispers, and fresh sheets gently washed with sacrifice and poison, and if you’re careful in this ghost month, these poems will call upon the succubus to tend to your flesh wounds and scars.
These nightmares are sweeping fantasies that electrocute the senses as much as they dull the ache of loneliness by showing you what’s hiding under your bed, in the back of your closet, and inside your head. Sng’s poems dissect and flower, her autopsies are delicate blooms dressed with blood and syntax. Her words are charcoal and cotton, safe yet dressed in an executioner’s garb.
Dream carefully.
You’ve already made your bed.
The nightmares you have now will not be kind.
And you have no one to blame but yourself.

Available on Amazon!