I imagine myself using the tips of elegant fingers
to find the place where my hair parts,
digging my long delicate nails into my scalp,
right through to the skull.

I imagine myself peeling away my scalp,
complete with perfect golden locks
in the same manner that one may peel away
the skin of an orange
and embracing the searing pain
as my skin loosens its grip on my skull,
and later, the bones of my porcelain face.

I imagine myself tugging at my pale skin
until I can hold the once angelic face in front of me
as though it were a mask
so I can see its dimpled smile,
without having to look in a mirror.

I imagine myself taking that enchanting mask
and dropping it to the floor,
discarding it the same way a child
would discard another broken toy
that it had finished playing with.

A poem falls short; I'd like, instead
to draw a single line from me to you
and watch it curl into a word
so beautiful it's still unsaid –
or press paper to the window pane
so that the day might saturate
a note that brightly warms your hands,
spills birdsong from imagined trees
and buzzes like fat bumblebees,
but I am bound by language, love; I can't.