I have a closet in the wall
where I hid my peach color morning gown
moth-eaten in its pockets

the little toe of my right foot
breaks out through a hole in the sock
it doesn’t matter
if it’s alone and frozen
if it scratches the floor with its nail
no one will ever decipher
the parchment below

my house is a delicate lace
growing in rotten wood
it smells badly like naphthalene
and rancid coffee
after too many sleepless nights

I stir slowly with the teaspoon
with my little finger in extension
writing the letter „O”
this time with my left hand