Don't touch my porcelain skin
And leave a greasy thumbmark
Leaving a warm human stain
On what used to be cold glass
.
Poreless me, I sweat through
My eyelids, and the raindrops
Slide off like a drying old glue
On a forgotten Hallmark card
.
Like the one I send every year
In an yellowing old envelope
Greetings a lacklustre veneer
In automated wishes of hope
.
They never send back, never will
Throw my postal mail in a basket
It's fine, just an obligation to fulfil
And I'll preoccupy my own health
.
As I polish my iridescent arms
With a newly-washed tea towel
See the glow, reflecting charms
Of the fluorescent lighting shell
.
Look at me, I'm a marble goddess
Of alabaster and stiff appendages
But heed the museum signs, okay
And touch me not, I ask, and pray
.
Do not touch my porcelain skin
Not an inch closer of your finger
I don't wish for cracks to appear
And I'll thirst for human hungers
.
Do not touch my pure porcelain skin, please
Kill that curiosity early, it is all for the better
I'm perfectly placid now, I'm in a cooled cryogenic peace
And I fear your torrid emotions just might make me shatter.
YOU ARE READING
Oneirology
Poetry♦♦♦ Oneirology: the study of dreams. Dreary reality intertwined with nuances of dreamy phantasm; for when my quill is spitting iridescent rainbow mirages instead of murky ink puddles. ♦♦♦
