Am I real? Do I have a soul? Do I bleed? That’s a bracelet on my wrist, not poor workmanship. How good a job did your maker do putting you together? Judge me by the colors that surround and cover me, by the beautiful gesture of my hand. So beautiful, so real. You can see my face, can’t you? Or is it yours? Or perhaps it’s my maker’s. Did your god leave a watermark on you somewhere?
I am alive in you. You will be taking me with you when you walk away.