Andreea Scridon
A part of me

does worry that neither of us will ever be able to leave this place.
It’s some time now that I’ve been living in your head, quite on your benevolence
or perhaps the indolent procrastination of a somewhat kinder landlord than others.
Strangely, you don’t seem to mind that I make of you my medicine cabinet,
that I tear down the walls around here and put up kitschy wallpaper.
In order to get with the times, I’ve had a sex change from nymphet to CCTV
and, in my spare time, am your eyes.
In order to escape the impossibility of our perfection,
a dog that I baptized “loneliness in two”
(or maybe just the sadness of the past, which, I was surprised to find,
carries on even when you are “very much in love”),
I spend my days painting frescos on the wall:
“angels playing music”, already faded. When it grows dark,
I take the nail supplements poorly and put on my Disney princess dress,
the itchy one, sit down with my hands in my lap,
and wait for the room to tremble as you begin to speak.