When they send the robot to replace me, do not be gentle with it. Place these chords where its heart chakra should be. Do not speak to it of a fountain— tell it, in the middle of its life, there will be a flower: a blooming petalled trauma. Tell it, I considered beauty, once, but there were white-iced, gingerbread cookies, brown with molasses, in the ceramic, black, Santa jar. My father’s mangoes, green, red and yellow, were in a wooden bowl on the kitchen counter, unharmed, having traveled so far beyond their home. There were the last hours before sleep, when mother borrowed energy from the next day to make at least three nights’ worth of dinners for us. Until the night roused me with more night and I masticated with tongue. Masticated with teeth. Masticated in my sleeping gown. Masticated beneath the sheets. Masticated in the bathroom stalls at school so quiet you wouldn’t hear me over the sound of a raindrop. I am a master-cator. I will masticate. Until there’s nothing. Until I’m full. Until I’m done.