Clumsily clawing at white wallpaper,
to find a dark corner to put myself down-
i am just messing the depth of your palms,
forming a fleshy mold around the folds of the
caps of my knees
or the sour sunk-in turns of my neck and shoulders.
An empty mold, now
i fill with plastic and pixels of indecency, of
the most revered members of your awkward anatomy.
So strange, you've forgotten- or formerly misplaced-
the formidable features you borrowed
from the frail expression on my face.
Do you have them on the mold of me
in place of a real memory; anxiously
await breaking the cast, await me
poured sullenly?
Or, rather keep them on that dusty shelf
where I can sit and think and cry to myself.
I hope that you, from time to time, see me,
stale and dangerous in your periphery.
I'm sure you don't, as I remain
a still-life stuck inside a frame,
barely able to see over emboldened borders
as to if your blacked-out body is
sprawled across the bed or if your most
revered anatomy is just
running on of me instead.
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