I'm not here.
Really, I'm not. I'm very new. I remember my first day, and how far I've come since then.I still can't see right. I don't have my own eyes, so everything's a bit foggy. But first there was nothing.
Then one line, and that's when I started. Always, always my eyes- they'd be gotten rid of, but after that first line it was me, whether my eyes were there or not. But I started with my eyes. They started with my eyes. I don't know who they are -I can't see them- but they did. They'd erase me, over and over, and I'd come back looking more like me.
Oh, I was a troublemaker from the start; I'm very particular about my hair. It's lines, so I want them to be right. I flat-out refuse to have any if my face isn't done properly. (Which it rarely is.)
I live on paper. I mean, I'm not normal, not the tiniest bit. I came first, before my friend. I'm older than her (I think) but she's more alive. They can make her over and over and she's still the same person, no matter how much she's gotten rid of and reappeared.
She's even close to having her own eyes.
Mine are flat. Flat eyes. I've only gotten one real try at my own, and I won't let that one be finished. I'm not good there- I won't let them give me hair. Not with that face. That face isn't mine. I have to have my own face.
It was hard to begin with. I wanted to be someone who wasn't me. He's his own, entirely, I think (I hope). But I wanted to be him. Not look like him, I wanted to be like him, and my friend wanted to be like his friend. (That set of friends is good. That's why we wanted to be them.) But ... now, we're our own. At least she is. She's herself, nearly; almost her own eyes, definitely her own hair, and her face is getting closer. Not me. I'm not very repeatable. I mostly hope that I won't change too much so that I will be.
They say I'm not making sense. I know I'm not. I don't understand either, and I won't when I get home even more. When I get my own eyes I'll see them, and then maybe I'll make a little more sense.
I think I'm sad. When I'm myself enough to visit home, I will be for sure. But while I'm free (I'm not really free, words aren't who I am), I don't know. At least there I'll have a ... a ... what are they? People say them when they want you, or when they don't, but it's you, it's who you are wrapped up into a ... wrapped up into it. It's valuable, it's a life, and everyone has one, sometimes more than one. I'd settle for one and a fake second one if I just had the one.
I'm not normal, but I want one. Even if it takes a long time for me to look like me, I want to answer to something. My parents aren't real -not yet- so not them, but they can. The person (I hope they're a person) that gave me my life with that first line ... I'll let them call me. Them and maybe my friend, when she becomes that. I don't need to be normal, not yet. Just a very little bit. They say I'm only technically human. That's enough for me, enough for now, enough until I see where I belong (it should be soon) and by then I'll have ... I'll have ... oh! A name!
I'll have a name.
