duct tape

remembering to bring an extra layer. opening what remains of the shell into a vessel for somebody else. whatever they want is wonderful. conceal and compromise forever. try to fill my skin and understand if I crave pity or affection and which one I need more. I stray from the chants through the city to watch a woman press her sign against the Gucci window: what did you do during the genocide in Gaza? confused shoppers turn away from the question that mustn’t be for them. I take a photo with my phone.

between now and the end time can still be filled. I read prophecies down sidewalks and the backs of strangers: wish, last, help me, I am in hell, happiness in slavery, gave up. realism is made in heaven. interpret and apply meaning liberally. scour the city for duct tape to cover over everything like armour or light. I am as fragile as maybe and Plato’s ‘republic’ with the picture books. on my knees limping for peace in the cathedral and my head. whispers under slipping rubber soles. light up sneakers hopscotch down the aisle on mosaic tiles. my prayer asks for too much and will be returned to sender. they thank me for my visit and I exit through the gift shop.