I’m in love with myself:

I’m a feigned woman:
I watch my plush spit
instead of ‘True crime’.
I’m served a greeting of postcards
for tanning gold-skinned,
wearing jewelled wigs,
knowing where hands feel best
with glittered listening.
I caress my arms in holding you.
A body,
steadying breath
opens my chest,
to be nourished.
That is something bitter, off-putting,
marketed: ‘tasting like spoiled silk’,
like I should pry off my tongue,
and let icing slip down.
On my walk to warm you,
I flirt with my knees for bending.
Breathless for fingers,
that gift you a hand.
In spring birthed blossoms,
that beat with senseless weather,
(here, Elsewhere)
I rest,
to thank my throat
for holding your perfume.