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.