I wonder

I wonder
if you think about me
when you're feeling low
and the dirt walls
suffocate your face
and the flowers
die upon your head.
Do you imagine
my fuschia hair
and my liquid lips
as an oxygen mask,
bringing you only air?
Or do you see a knife,
slicing off
your windpipe
into finite parts?

These things I wonder;
as I mold
pieces of you
and build something up
to try and at least
make the woodwork stable,
useable.
And I hope, if you never
see your daughter
and gaze upon her perfect,
angel, eyelashes
that at least
you can find peace
and make your regrets
a new future
within all that you have created.