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She is the doll daughter, an ornament of ambient alabaster.
She is the plot of an another women's existance, and the progress of a desperate man's desire — he bears her makeshift limbs as a second-skin, and croons her name with a bedeviled piety
She is a decoration with a softer title: human. And he swears their feelings are mutual, though they pretend they can't even hear her whisper. They complain her tongue is a rotted petal, and her teeth a row of copper — denial is a generously fed hunger.
She is a glitch within the walking street, rumored with pedestrians only. Yet, he carries her proudly, and ignores it when their lips twitch, and they chortle ubiquitously — a hull of pity that masks envy. They call him a manchild that bleeds hope too freely, but he knows better than to believe.
She is a changeling, but he has sought too long to see behind subtleties of madness — it lies inside the creased oblivion, the battered apathy that he stitches together with frenzied kisses — he discerns it as a delusion. Why must they beguile him when he was chosen? They are only snakes within his garden.
And any path but the shortest is poison — he accuses them of being beast that reign with cruel contempt as they shred lovers away, and he'd never let that be. Tonight, without fear, he professes his love for this girl to the brooding world, plastic made real, with limbs that peal away at his command, and reorganize quickly for the ballroom dance. Tonight, he lays curled up with the girl of his dreams, their lips pressed together as he recreates majesty on a tattooed piano. Yet, her eyes are only an unholy liquor —
