my pearled gaze / will watch that haze mark the soul / will watch it puncture
thirty hollow men
Content warning: erotic objectification; references to sex
On Sundays, i’ll bathe in rose water, rinse
the mud from my feet and
wash my linen.
i’ll return to my display room, carved
creamy marble streaked in pure honey light, staked to a concrete pedestal.
i’ll sulk in my finest perfumes, and let
the purple tail stray from the open decanter and
my pearled gaze
will watch that haze mark the soul
will watch it puncture
thirty hollow men,
who trace that slight curve of my torso and
fuck my name without even knowing it.
who abbreviate their personality
into plum blush on my neck and
into bruises on my bottom lip.
whilst in my presence,
man’s eye will transcend time and dress me as his white
i am his, he reveres me,
—it is scribed on my title card. i
am that limitless echo, art
leaving a writhing imprint on his stained sheets.
a long dead beauty that only
his eye remembers.