I can see the easel. now placing fingers delicate. The glass surprising and coarse. To make. A canvas to make. Things… whichever things. My things. Stolen things. Misappropriated things. Beautiful things. To dreaming transfer possession waking find them yours. To discern. To mistrust and deride. To bury me with the content of my own words. To read aloud at parties ironically, half the room protesting their boredom. The other half sharing in the quiet pleasure of pretending empty and casually ridiculous. To leave. To encase yourself in. I don’t dare love you.
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