As I tidy, I organise time in little pill-pockets, sweep debris from sills and tables. I dice their cravings and fancies into some sort of meal, and wash nine hours of lines trod and toed from my clothes, ready for morning.
These things make me feel needed, and I resent them as though they are chains. Do you draw me as selfish?
As I rest, I see my oldest cup with my keys; my coat and cleaned-boots left by the radiator gathering heat, and I wrap myself in a patchwork of dreams. I catch a wink - my favourite colours - beaded from the heartbreak-dark of a room.
These things make me feel loved, and I breathe them as though they are air. Do you draw me as ungrateful?
As I watch, I turn my reflection this way, that way, pile ink-hair on her crown. I imagine my burgundy dress fall over her hips to the floor - reveal to my mind the vanity of sheer-stockings and dark eyelash-lace on porcelain skin.
These things make me feel beautiful, and I miss them as though they are dead. Do you draw me as shallow?