cut off my face
serve it up for dinner
for beauty exists
only
if you can taste it
* * *
A flute trills the night air,
sorrowful notes
of my existence.
I blend into the wallpaper,
no flowers
or stripes to stand out
against the background.
You see through me,
my despair stuffed
like laundry into
a canvas bag,
dirty and wrinkled,
smelling of sweat.
Rag dolls and
stuffed animals,
past lives comfort me
as I melt into thin air,
the notes of my flute
seeking audience
so I won’t be so alone.