Papier-mâché skin held up by toothpick bones.
Composed of dainty flowers,
Paired with eggshell tiptoes
Used for skipping and prancing –
Prim, proper, polished
And petite, satin-gloved hands
To scrub the dishes with
Till unblemished to mirror you back, from inside out –
Purged, chaste, elegant.
Fragile.
But papier-mâché has layers of depth and
Skin thicker than at surface it seems.
Toothpicks can pick up the pieces
Of each hiccup or calamity,
Regardless of how small
And despite their size they’re not weak at all,
But, piercing.
Those eggshells shield and yield
The precious prosper of young.
Who’s to say you’re no cactus,
And not just some flimsy petal –
But you can bet you’re just as sweet.
We are composed of the iron
That presses your clothes.
Nip
Like the scorching tea served
On china platters.
Our rosé lips are pursed
Not to kiss, or gloss for backwards fairytales
‘Prince Charming’ turned frogs
But in revolt.
And revolt we will.
