Untitled (After Schiaparelli)

I’m you but worse, all I can do is float here

suspended on this arc of rare celluloid

and look pretty, shocking, trapped.

You get to live your own dull, ugly life and 

be part of your own dull, ugly ecosystem. I’m not 

into that sort of thing, I’m much too richly hued.

I’m in my

Glamourous Sloth Era.

Useless, but so valuable. I guess we are alike in that way. 

I’m crystallized as alloy with my distant relatives, we

all would jump at each other’s throats 

if given the chance. But we can’t. 

I think we are the most gorgeous girls at this gala. Don’t you? 

Wouldn’t you want me floating above your skin?

My prison is perfectly contoured for the thinking woman’s neck. 

Promising so much that I can never deliver,

sensations that you can only imagine. I fantasize

occasionally, about breaking my wings free of this invisible plane

liberated of this decadent death-sentence that I do so enjoy

and delicately dancing my claws across your clavicle.