Pursuit

It is our desire
To be odourless
To be graceful
We are the legion of perfection
Peruse it like hunters
Pinch
Suck
Iron our hair and paint our toes

We see our reflection
In those cold, dead eyes
Famished of identity
Staring at us
From beneath the laminated covers
Of red top magazines
We fill the void with our soul

But our fingertips cannot reach to scrape the surface
We remain anchored
Fumbling as our bones knock together
And the bottom of our cave
Clambering and crawling
Like a child
Hunched in the bathtub
Grasping at soap