You fenced off your eyes
with a charcoal black,
then stranded in snow
and an endless depression,
you painted your death-mask
in venetian ceruse,
hoping that it would be enough
to appease your critics;
to keep away from the sun,
to slip through the seams of time,
and to a place where
the evenings do not seem so long.

You gave your sanity
to a useless drug
and kept your identity
to the picture
within his wallet.
I hope you know your bravery is noticed.
I hope that for once
you can find peace
amongst this constant state of war.

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.