8

Baudelaire said
"Wine, poetry, or virtue".

I have no virtue left,
and my poems have been replaced by the cruel stuffings of the ones who looked
and took too much.

However, I have wine.

Not that it matters, much.

You pose me like a porcelain doll
And stretch me out
as thin as I will go
Bending and twisting to your will
until I'm perfect,
and untouchable.

Until I've nothing left to
give to you.

"It's a fair exchange, really"
they say,
as they poke at my hair,
and the eyes they think are glass.

In their own way, the lookers have found truth.

You can't give me what I need
anymore than I can run away and find shelter and comfort.

This deal we've struck.

At least, though,
in my cupboard
on my shelf
where I do nothing
but collect the dust you don't remove,
you've left me

Ink.

Ink and paper.

Ink and paper, and my wine.