Funny thing about this masterpiece I have created.
At first, it was for me, though I fancied it was for you.
Then it was for you, for real.
And now it is for me again.
It isn't that
Little Cinder Girl, bound to the hearth:
I see you there tracing the contours of your dilapidated circumstances, running your index finger over the roughness of what you have been left to endure.