at ten past six
women walk like fruit
but i am not a woman tonight.
i am my hedonism.
i am her hedonism.
i am the cheap satin that will hold my waist until someone’s hands takes its place.
i lie on the pavement and indulge in the symbolism of it all.
bathing in a yellow light
i don’t know where it comes from.
carcass with a beating heart,
tell me where we met.
time and air sit stagnant. diffuse.
there is no breeze and it has been ten past six for over four hours now.
borrowed motivation -
stand
standi
standin
standing
standing
standing
sta
s
cotton hands.
beeswax hair.
there is someone taking money out of ticket machines and i do not care.
oh, my insincerity
my beautiful, beautiful insincerity
doe eyes on the coal cut clarity
and tonight I close them
but now
i am not a woman
i am not my hedonism
i am not
i am
no longer the protagonist of my own thoughts
and I want to know from where the yellow light falls.
but right
now
none of that is real.
my satin takes the tears
i get my kicks.
nothing good happens after ten past six.

i am diet dreams.
subpar version of someone that might never exist,
model made of colours, trauma and ducks.
the sculptors hands are my own this time -
i’ve never worked with clay before.

the potters wheel spins but i spin with it,
never catching up with myself -
i could be beautiful,
if only i could reach.
i take off my apron
and wash the clay off my hands.
oh,
i’ve lost something -
forever!

We fall asleep together
We wake up in different mornings.
I get up and break a glass.
It sounds beautiful every time.