To you I probably smell like
Chanel Chance
Because I saw it in the airport
On my way to Cannes
And it has been my scent ever since
To you I might be in
Black lingerie, under a red dress
On the streets of London
Because no one would ever know
But us
To you I probably have my hair
Pinned up, all extravagant
Ready for it to fall
Down
Down
Down
The way you like it
To you I’m a figurine
Ever fluid
Not porcelain—but scarred
Like a broken statue in the rubble
Naked, bare, and barren.
But to them I’m a vessel.
None other than.
Speaking words of wisdom
Sharing my only truth
A representative
For something higher than
I could ever imagine.
