I am the wet newspaper
in your papier-mâché
your words for me make me sound
more sophisticated than I am:
a soggy, smelly mess
The weight of me waits in the bowl
I am nothing without your control
save me
from myself
from sticking in all the wrong places
Smash me up in your hands
press me onto a shape of your choosing
I mold myself around your ideas, your solids,
dripping potential –
I am not there yet
Precariously, prop me up, then
abandon me here, leave me alone
don’t you dare try to watch as I dry
as wrinkles and cracks set in on my skin
trust in the process
Be careful as you cause the collapse, carve out my insides
I am a little more rigid but
I could never stand up to your knife
paint my face, make me up, I want
to look pretty for you
What do you think?
Do you like me like this?
Won’t you tell me I’m beautiful,
set as I am
in the shape of your choosing
I will not miss being wet
or the weight of myself
I am happier hollow than heavy
here I am, your papier-mâché princess
now tell me please, I beg you, where
do you want me?