Mis-shapes

Powder puffs
lavender bag
lilac underwear,
bearskin rug.
Plastic nik-naks, makeup and scent,
these are a few of my favourite things.

Today I have plasticine
where this old heart should be.
Mis-shapes, factory seconds,
this is all I am to you.

Would you sell me off cheaply
to consumers who are not discerning
about the quality
of their confectionery?

Warm and malleable,
ready for cardio-manipulation.
Willing to mould,
and fit through the
square window in that Playschool show.

Got plasticine where this old heart should be.
Mis-shapes, factory seconds,
this all I am to you.

Perhaps we are both
simply shapes that do not fit together, and I am a contestant
on The Crystal Maze,
inside some Aztec den
shouting "I can't see what I have to do!"
and you are telling me that we
would slot together beautifully
if I could just see the mathematical solution.

Either way, you don't want my Playdoh heart.
You want the Thornton's boy
or the Milk Tray man.
I can still smell you on my clothes
and it makes me feel ill,
like when you ate too much chocolate
at Easter time
and I held the hair from your eyes
while you were being sick.