Come to me Amyelia;

Barren ballerina, compliant as a question mark.

I make you foreign as a statue,

you have no bark to sharpen limbs

or catch a memory like a bruise,

 a porcelain whisper clotting my fingerprint

you are,

and fashion asbestos in my anaesthetic.

 

Abreacted, you are all window,

and catching the light – a magpie

makes you mortar.

Encouraged, you are a muse,

and I find it hard, this loosening grip.

How would you court the public?

 

Your body photographs love,

every time I look at you,

and I must walk without prompt

beyond the frame, resigning

the nutrient -

 

I am made from you, the same,

but too much human without

and every freedom I am,

turns back to you in doubt.