I tell you I’m flakey because the breadcrumbs
blent in with the leaves and I don’t know how
else to say it.
As if rolling coils down a hill could build
a decent pot for these roots that stand
for nothing but a pretty face…
but all that glaze could never meditate
me out of stereo sound shivers (his taps).
I clasp that clenched longing in my lap,
inevitably revising every introduction
as another antic invitation.
In sarcastics (and italics):
All those crescendos were conducted anyways… I guess.
Wait. If they were bewitched, does that make me the witch?
So it seems…
because as soon as they see I’ve maimed my spine for their charcoaled portraits
(clay does require that kiln), they find a more favourable format— matted to a wall.
I won another ribbon…
So, ya— I mean, “YAY.” Okay. That’s great.
Even if sugar substitutes, I can’t say I see any use
when no houses have been made purely out of candy
(it’d make me sick either way).
Though, Once Upon a Time I liked to pretend
that someone was writing a fairytale hiding
my prince with this villain’s best interest
That’s something prophetic: an attraction to those who keep time.
But I doubt they’d hold me long enough, standing on my borderline.