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
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.