i am her caretaker

she is my ward

i have mothered her, though i cannot call her my own; she is not kin

we hold that distance between our skins

while we feed each other, in a working partnership;

i cannot ignore my dominance within this relationship

she is subject to my whims: experiments

where i decide, i control, i set the structure

i build the foundation

it is by my hand, that she is forced into position

and she follows, not entirely in silence or compliance,

as i must adapt her discomfort into my satisfied

i slipped ripped her off that old kimchi pot and saw she needed more structure--

uneven layers of skin: sturdy in some places turned totally opaque,

delicate where she was too thin to hold shape-- yet,

in vulnerability you could see the full trace of her form


as she lay sleeping she had grown a thin coat of mold, in patches,

against the thick skin of her insides,

the soft spaces that hide

so thick that light couldn't shine through

and while i saw that she could be strong in this way, we would begin to lose her

blob of sticky leather-like-something

almost shape, wanting

so i found her a base, an old metal

lampshade frame