I want to be Simone de Beauvoir in Sartre’s arms
I want to be Lizzie and dance with Mr. Darcy
If I were a pen, I would want Wilde to caress me with his fingers
I want to be Angela Carter and tell my children stories
I want to be Virginia Woolf or Kate Chopin
If I were a rock, I would want Camus to push me up a hill
I want to be Alice Walker and drown in colors
I want to be Sappho and write more poems to my muse
If I were a potato, I would want Joyce to carry me around
I want to be Agatha Christie and find the truth
I want to be Anne Rice and hide it better when I do
If I were a little girl again, no other but Nabokov
I want to be Claire Castillon and play with balls
I want to be Madame Bovary but with morphine
If I were canvas, I would like Picasso to taint me
If I were cocaine, I would like Freud to snort me
If I were a painting, no place else but in the attic