A Softer Title
She is the doll daughter,
an ornament of ambient alabaster.
She is the plot of an another women's existance,
and the progress of a desperate man's desire —
he bears her makeshift limbs as a second-skin,
and croons her name with a bedeviled piety
that wears weary.
She is a decoration with a softer title:
human. And he swears their feelings are mutual,
though they pretend they can't even hear her
whisper. They complain her tongue is a rotted petal,
and her teeth a row of copper —
denial is a generously fed hunger.
She is a glitch within the walking street, rumored with
pedestrians only. Yet, he carries her proudly, and ignores it when
their lips twitch, and they chortle ubiquitously — a hull of pity
that masks envy. They call him a manchild that bleeds hope
too freely, but he knows better than to believe.
She is a changeling, but he has sought too long
to see behind subtleties of madness — it lies inside
the creased oblivion, the battered apathy that he stitches together
with frenzied kisses — he discerns it as a delusion. Why
must they beguile him when he was chosen? They are
only snakes within his garden.
And any path but the shortest is poison — he accuses them of being
beast that reign with cruel contempt as they shred lovers away,
and he'd never let that be. Tonight, without fear, he professes his
love for this girl to the brooding world, plastic made real, with
limbs that peal away at his command, and reorganize quickly
for the ballroom dance. Tonight, he lays curled up with the
girl of his dreams, their lips pressed together as he recreates
majesty on a tattooed piano. Yet, her eyes are only an
unholy liquor —
but never will he see, and for this,
he is happy.