eggshell people

a white and almost shiny blankness
and smooth for easy passage
down some dirty birth canal
(but we'll hide that fact
with dryness and polish)
how you lounge in your corner
pretending you could get up
if you really wanted to.

peck-peck-peck
don't peck too hard
how you're blithe and blase
over the way you wouldn't want us
to see what you really are
thinking, how you
keep your cheap ideas
to yourself.
perfection and precise
encapsulated mumbles
is all you like to hear
yourself say.

"the world doesn't get me.
the world can't touch me."

years and years
and even beeswax crayons
or the dyes of seasons
won't stick to you.

you're perfect.

(but i wonder what that smell is?)