Self-Admiration

I want you to show me around the house you speak of that's painted a bright red and bordered in white. I want you to show me how to open the windows and stare at the trees in the front yard. I want you to lead me to where you keep the rope so I can "tie up the hammock". Between two trees, I'll lay and watch the sun awkwardly inch away from my view. I'm watching you, sun.
I think it's time we made a little something to eat. I cut myself "accidently" to prove my "vulnerability". I want your trust.

(Ahem.
"Testing. Testing. Is this thing on?")

I want you to tell me where that little village that you keep mentionning is and if there is a lake to bury you in when we get there. I like playing with shovels and matches and smoking cigarettes, flicking my ashes into my reflection in a body of water.
And if you float, my dear, please know that I will find a way to weigh you down.
Because the moonlight only shines a certain way
and I love the way I look when the light shines on the ripples in my reflection.

I used to see a lot of me in you,
but I realized that,
for the good of the world,
I must be contained in one body.

Paper thin. Paper weight. Paper thin. Paper weight.


(I'm gone for two weeks! So enjoy this piece that I've been working on for a bit.)