i melt my skin into bath bombs
fill the tub like water with all the parts i want to wash away
i am trying to cleanse my pores
become sweet like cinnamon air in a quaint bakery, all flowers
and as the rain smeared, the lights bled like an oil painting in the reflection and i stopped to stare at myself in the window
i am not a work of picasso
i am a product of a loveless marriage
i am a representation of how passion can become possession
i retain memories within me that make my brain swell and i feel my heart beat in my glands
i am trying to master sensitivity so i can be more thoughtful when i explain to you why i am the way that i am, so that i don’t upset you
i don’t think there’s blood within me
my organs are mechanic
i am made of pure electricity and too much frequency rests in my palms, scattered like shattered glass and convulsing through me
i am trying to cleanse my pores
smell doughnuts at the seaside instead of rotting flesh
nothing about this is luxurious
i try to be elegant
as held together as woven ivy
i am more graveyard
more derelict detachment
i stare at a reflection in a quaint bakery window
i hope one day i merge with the lights on the pathway and become all oil painting      all flowers     all sweet like cinnamon.