I am closer to a rickety, old machine than I am a human being. There is nothing about me that is natural. I am an unsalvageable hunk of rust and wires. To fulfill my assigned role is to fry my inner-workings. They put a bandaid on the damages many times over. When my power light goes dim they will have got their money’s worth.

 I am ‘beyond repair’, perhaps, or cheaper to replace.  They will use me, and use me, and use me—then strip the parts to sell the metal when I die.