Hope encapsulated in a new suit, I look at myself in the mirror.
I don't recognise myself. The tailor reassures me. He does up the buttons on my jacket.
I look at myself in the mirror.
"Will you do the turn-ups?"
It is personalised.
My image is defined, I am suitable for function.
Made for Measure.
How is it I know that I am worn by the suit and not the other way round?
I am made anxious keeping up its appearance.
I walk down the street.
I am anonymous.
I feel a longing, a dull longing.
Branded, a superior cut, I have a fine sheen.
I am made for measure.
Take a knife, slash, let me bleed.
Be careful not to stain, to bruise my flesh.
Skinned, tenderised, jointed.
I cook, a Sunday roast.