You are made of paste.
You tend to sparkle and shine like real jewels,
but you have none of their weight.
None of their substance.
I feel so heavy that you are like a feather to me.
Changeable by the blowing wind.
I need more weight.
I want to be crushed by proof that you are real and warm and imperfect like I am.
But you cannot wish your self into a more solid existence.
So I must demand of the world, of anyone who dares to approach me,