I have a basket full of
Statues of the girl
I used to be.
Once gleaming, now dusted
With specks of me—desiccated 
and crumbled to bits.

Perhaps if I could peel away this skin 
I’d find her trapped in me.
Beneath this sallow fattened flesh
She may be waiting for me:
      Arms open for me:
      Wings spread for me:
      Holding out a gleaming promise—.

When I was firm and young and proud
I thought I’d end that way.
Life drags on and drags me now
Softly, slowly to my grave.