Étrange

The water from the tap is black, I sink in and I’m silent.

The ripples are empty and echo.

I have a feeling that the soap is washing nothing away.

That I am a message in a bottle, and my words are scattered and blotched like sea-spray

I have a cold. Rhûme.

It’s a thing of bilinguality.

I can think my thoughts in french and english and molecular structure

I wonder if somebody assembled me to be me, or if they didn’t know who I would be until I was somebody else

Somebody picked at the pieces of my soul with dollar store tweezers

To painstakingly assemble each piece of coming apart at the seams girl soul

And make it into a two-month rainy Sunday afternoon project

Where I became a enclosed masterpiece

Assembled in a bottle

Alone on a dusty shelf of an old man’s basement

A relic, not to be touched or played with

Such things are frivolous and strange. Étrange.

Dying after fifty years of useless preservation

And dreaming of Calcùn

Because

The greatest book he ever read

Was Empty.