I want to be unrecognizable and blue all over,

The kind of blue that looks black if you tilt your head or close one eye.

I want the blue to ache like the underside of a night sky when it hangs close enough so we can

feel its pressure, a sky ringed through with lonely sounds from tenements and forest floors.

I want you to make me a skyline of depth.

A chunk of my lips diced in the corner,

An eyelash riding over the edge of the canvas.

You will not see my picture before you begin.

I will give pieces,

The soft circle of my eye on the screen porch, a fern’s leafy tendrils suspended in the pupil.

The scrunch of my cheek, pressed against my mother’s.

My bottom lip in winter, thinly chapped.

I want to be leaking words like blood.

I will provide you a list of quotations to dribble through and between all the pieces of me.

Do not misspell them.

When you are done, I want you to paint over me again and again,

A sheen of light blue to silvery white,

Dimension on top of dimension.

I want your canvas to be a portal, a looking glass sliced into dazzling reflections of myself.

Wrap the painting in wallpaper fit for Anne of Green Gables,

Ticked with flowers and willow leaves, charmingly yellow.

Sign my name on the package with a quill pen. Enfolded in history, I want to unwrap as

something new.

I want you to make me myself again.

I want borrowed colors, dimensions, and words crawling through me,

Becoming mine.