I am now the ritual mask
grateful for the cosmetics industry. Your hormones morbid
rear up a bit. I'm your wrist, your silky thingy. How quickly you forget
the temporariness of metamorphoses.
The Carnival of Venice is the confetti. Shadow
hasty absorbed by the angles of fog.
is as if there had been no party
but leftovers and dirty dishes after firing
last guest.
When regressing the vampires, you will no longer be
Marylin. Because in the wild
I've run the mascara,
faded lips, washing
accessories and baits.
With disheveled hair, without
push-up, no lace, no cinema
sight,
you out to the ring gap.
A merciless sunshine
will land on my cheek.
will notice my incorrect measurements,
my scar, my ankles disparate irreversible
the map of my freckles.
will have escaped the pin-up .
And your feet will have to decide.
Pictured: Scarlett Johansson.
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