Throw away your mascara,
mousse and underwear.
Wear these lines
for a week,
just one week,
not a long time.

Let the words mold your face,
drape your shoulders,
delicate breasts.
Let the lyric infuse
your dreams,
scent your pillows,
press your thighs
with invisible weight.

At the end of the week
if these Emperor's clothes
are your neonpoem,
call me. I'll be here
on hold,
won't have eaten,
but won't rewrite.
You are new ink
that will not dry.

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