Day by day she dresses me, in sunrise early light.
She holds my hand, caresses it. Her veins glow warm
And blue. I dream of her, pink and full of gore.
Muscles collapse into marrow decorations. Tied
With a bow. To hang around my stagnant neck.
I parade her favourite clothes. I loathe
Her essence. Her ability to talk.
Her. Ruby lips to grab and sew
To a blank, marketable face. I see, they admire.
How well I fit her clothes. She wraps them round
My form. Elegant- compact, no fat to combat.
I wish for a snug fit, for red rings
Bitten by ill-fitting cotton. To grow out,
To grow in, up. Maybe even down.
Cold. She says I am cold.
Picture her skin pressed against my synthetic
Thighs. Her blood scattered like autumn leaves,
Poured like wine and savoured. A toast to our exchange.
A spurious woman clawing to emerge from her pieces.
Yearning to feel like she does. Seize my supple fingers
And know what it means to hurt.
Know that I am alive,
Know that I know that I
Know that I am. Stride down the aisles, peruse
With lung handbags and skull beret.
So I dismember her embers; her flame.
But don’t worry; only in my brain.
But I am. A silicon statue, staring vacant.
Faceless and alone. Model those
Nasty fast fashion clothes. Hands on hips, nailed
To a podium. The taxidermized bird in a cage.
Let’s swap- I echo. She’d be centre stage.
I think therefore I’m skin and bones.
But you wouldn’t really know.