Robots Do Not Use Contractions

I should have been born a robot. Although that is quite unrealistic, for robots are not born, they are made. I feel like I've been made though. Through these trials and tribulations, my warm, loving, blood pumping heart has become something similar to the little hand that screws on the tooth paste cap and the tooth paste factory. You know, the one that used to be done by a little old man? Now he's packed up his things and left, because why pay a person, when you can make a robot do the same thing, for free?
It feels like my heart is made of metal. Like my brain fired the little person who used to run it, who used to feel things, cry for it, fix it and care about its condition, and hired a robot look-a-like.
I'm living a lie. It's amazing how I can screw on that beautifully crafted smile when I'm near him. "Oh no, nothing is wrong, I'm just tired." "I love you too. Of course I still love you." "Still get married? I'd love to!"
Lies.
He doesn't love me either. He can say it all he wants, but no one is buying it. It's like the shitty elephant in the room. We both know it's there, but neither of us have the balls to acknowledge it. Someday we'll get sick of walking around it, but sheesh. Who knows for how long?
I don't hate him, of course not. I couldn't.
I wish so badly for change. For a revolution. An awakening. I am hanging on to this tiny little thread of hope. Past the handles, past the rope, past the knot. It's the loose, frayed end of this rope that I've sunken my nails into. I'm hoping that he will wake up and say to himself "Holy crap! I'm not treating this person like she should be treated!" And love me like I should be loved.
But I think we all know how silly that is. People change, yes, I think so. I hope so. But not THAT much. If he can't treat me like I'd like to be treated now, then when?
How long should I wait?
Until I can't look at myself in the mirror anymore?
It's getting close to that.
I know that I have not left him yet, because I am scared to be alone. I am scared to see how much the silence of a place called home can hurt my ears. I am scared to see if I can really do this, or if I'll be faking it forever. The real me, the real monster. I long for freedom from it. I want to trust myself, to believe in me.
I want to. I'm really scared to try. And scared to find out how wrong I am.
I apologize to you, dear reader, for this disgusting display of weakness, indulgence, selfishness, fear, and self-loathing. This is not me. This is the robot me.