I read somewhere
about this French artist
making porcelain weapons
They symbolise women,
delicate, yet dangerous,
or at least that’s what I remember
It made no sense
until you told me
I don’t seem attractive anymore
There wasn’t even a crack
on your colourless face,
no hint that you still feel
I cried that morning,
also later in the afternoon,
but you know that of course
You offered me a hug (ha ha)
like it would be even possible,
with porcelain weapons drawn