More weight

via Tend

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,

more weight.

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