A toy

And I'm your toy, -
 Worn and old cloth,
 Who has freckles on his cheeks
 Left spilled henna, -
 Which is not breathing and empty,
 More precisely, with a cotton-feather skeleton,
 The system of organs which is not easy:
 A crumpled newspaper formed?
 Who knows? Maybe I'm a toy.
 I might be taken apart
 And you can cut my belly open with a knife
 Without waiting for a little happiness.
 I can scratch my eye sockets with my fingernail
 And nod at them, and pull your fingers,
 And can I poke my navel with a needle,
 And you can look under the fabric for salce.
 I can look up at the sky with my feet
 And fall off the table, squaring his shoulders,
 And, having run up, to beat the head about walls:
 My skull is provided with a thread-frame.
 I don't even need to be afraid of hail:
 It will only melt inside the lump
 Rolled up during this time cotton wool,
 Similar to drooping of the kidney.
 And you're my toy -
 Of flesh, blood, and intercellular matter,
 Who had never been bored before,
 But in the future, probably bored.
 28. 12. 2019.