You who wishes to shower me, you, you hedonist writer:
angelic joys fit of deities, colored words, sylph title.
You who trails along my fabric, with your synesthetic truth.
My name’s dipped in words and heavy paint and odors oh-so-shrewd.
You, and every sense of yours engaged, all tickling with your gaze,
though I’ve tagged my pores foreign, that very scaly skin you’ve grazed.
Not the cause, nor correlation.
I’m deeply unhappy, but I am no seraph.
I’m deeply in love, and deeply taken care of.
Yet, my innocence is not pure; I’ve had a kink for fresh starts.
I was never winged. My blood has gushed walking atop glass shards.
Of course I am paralyzed but that is not due to the pain
which of course has not aided me in any of these pathways.
Oh man, I’ve thrown everything away!
Recoil of hollowness is dismay.
Yes, I am lost and I’ve somehow learned to stay kind.
I’m not yet sure myself but I think you’re tricked by my dead eyes.
The sylph you made me out to be, instead threadbare cloth on steam.
Evaporate, hover obstacles. See? I’m no longer here.
Feathers are disgusting. I’ve lost touch but am clinging to words.
And I’ve been trying to become but it hurts and hurts and hurts.
(Author’s note: If you’ve read “Kafka On The Shore” by Murakami, you’ll find his description of “hollow” quite fitting and explanatory to this specific work. I’ve got to fill in the gaps somehow, I suppose.)