Blind Date

You own me, you need me.
I am the proof of your being
and your badge of honour.

I will not wear this false white skin
this yoke of acceptability,
another of your games.

You made me, now you hide me lest
you should be judged. I am more than
the sum of your parts, you, just tooled up flesh.

If I am riveted by the well oiled cogs of other
automata it will send signals to my standard
metal strip that turns the angle bracket to nudge
a breast tremble.

Your favourite flanged plate could loosen and crank
the hiss of sound, the slow slide and fall of my arm's
pump as toothed parts gear a synergetic reach
to touch.

My widget hammers on the anvil to my own beat
I own you.