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
I know
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 Calcun
Because
The greatest book he ever read
Was Empty.
