By Gemma Green
I ask that you keep me around as a courtesy
And that courtesy keeps me as pristine as she found me
Spry, and with a bundle of twigs clenched in my indigo fist
I ask that you see me as a trophy
All that I am is to be polished
And inscribed with achievement arbitrary
Looked after once every two months
Looked upon with a nostalgic eye and a pang of false superiority
I ask to be caught the same way heavy blankets of fog absorb tendrils of red smoke
Bathed in a wash of pallor and agony
Halved like an overripe fruit and discarded like birthday wrapping paper
Swiftly and secondarily to consumption
I ask to be told who I am
Imbue a direction to the evidently borderless shape of my mass
Timeless in yearning
Yearning to feel unadulterated joylessness once again
Without the burden of conscientiousness