Preservation

[owl_eyes]

I am hollow.
I am untouched, dry of holy water.
I am the aggravated difference between half empty
And half full.

The girl in the mirror will not make eye contact with me anymore.
Like a liar in the streets, I drag shame at my ankles.
She doesn’t know I’m here.
She doesn’t know I’m gone.

With the heart of a demented mathematician
I carve Roman numerals into Greek parchment skin.
My value is found in red-segment measurements,
In a shiver down the spine come out of hiding.
I never cared much for antiques.

I preserve a flawed skeleton
Within a dimension of clean cut glass.
When I gaze upon its beauty, they tell me they see broken bones.
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder
And I have gone blind.

I awake in bruises, scattered black and blue,
In the tiny broken vessels
I want to sail,
I want to drown.

This is not poetic.
This is not beautiful.
This is a delusion in the eyes of a mannequin
Searching for her bones.

This is not beautiful.