Hair careless tangled; dirt bristling on dried skin.
I’ll be clean, I’ll be beautiful again,
a cool, cruel image for someone.
I press the glass against my cheek,
feel the condensation disappear into natural fires.
I’m James Dean in the photos, the film,
despite all my disabilities…
Let me be him for you:
I’ve got that stride too, darling –
Look at my dark curls,
my sharpened shoes,
lips pressed like soft palms.
I’ll be your bloody golden boy,
stranded in crystalline eyes of blue.