come craft me out of concrete


she wore leopard print, trying to remember something, although her future she imagined heavily draped in thick, red velvet and intricate black lace. why all the weight? she wondered, even though deep down she knew exactly why: there was a secret lake beneath her skin that was only recently discovered and no one had ever reached the bottom of, not even herself. what if it’s atlantis? she worried, and started linking symptoms resembling acid reflux with the potential smog of an industrial society living off fossilized feelings in the depths of her soul. on occasion she could catch glimpses of what was hidden by the dark - flashes of strange glowing shapes - like the kinds that live behind your eyelids but more sullen. she was rain disguised as desert, her trusty container. loyal, yet not quite air tight, for on bumpy patches she would puddle embarrassingly. however, some times, the bumps were of the pleasing variety in which case she would puddle for other reasons. many other reasons. some reasons smelled like burning. my grandfather is a chameleon, was the soundbite she used to explain away her talent for disappearing. it was all procedure at this point: she dulls and she clouds, until temperatures drop and stars awaken. that’s when she rolls out, sloshing and thirsty, sitting on a distant memory of the wild. on a stoop. boiling.