Self-Sculptress

I prefer to think of you as ‘Girl in Hat Contemplating’.
I dare not linger on the eyes piercing the fourth wall,
to tell me they wish they were blue as a sun bearing sky
inking the whole earth below it, signing its name on the lips
which beckon me close to whisper “I wish I were fuller, majestic”
before I feel the air around me been taken as long breath is drawn
into the nose in the hope breathing-holding-letting go, will erode
extra membrane, bone and tendon, leaving something willow-like.
Sad self-sculptress hiding under hat and black baggy jumper
gazing at self in mirror; that is the terror I see in myself when I shelve                                                              time, look at you, really look at you.