Mold me like you’re Machiavelli,
like these jewels are mere means to the stately end of me.
Sift through the still air like a gas leak from a stove.

I want to wear you like Dior,
to keep your skin safe under my pillow.
Sleep is somehow perfect this way.

Wish me into being like I come from candles on a cake.
Place me on the couch and let me pose there. Ornamental.
Everything here is so tight and clean,
not even a secret could slip through.

I am locked like a leather suitcase in your closet.
I can’t stand it. Sundays drag on the ground like an old dog. Evenings drain me of warmth like a virus. I’m staring at the wrong cross.

Simone Weil drops me in a veil of sweet existence,
but there is still no philosophy to describe this.