plaster me like one of your french girls // matte my face in venetian ceruse // i’ll sit up on your walls //the back of a sticker // you won’t ever bother to scrape off  // i’m your porcelain angel // — exotically made // just the way you like it // read my label— // i even come with adjustable joints // so twist and turn me the way you want // do it in formula one fashion // pose me like i’m your muse // and when my scheele green eyes  // the ones you said remind you of Monet // begin to peel like that storm-busted hole in your ceiling // and the cracks in my flesh // become valleys you can’t hide from your friends// mail and return me to sender–

i come with a little surprise:
the best thing about porcelain is its melting point–
burn me a million times
and i’ll still look pretty,
just
  for
     you.