self-portrait as the dead wife in some christopher nolan film

they are starting to close the wide-open choke of my mouth, but i am so gorgeous in the camera’s gaze. i take everyone’s breath away. debicki giraffe legs, gyllenhaal plump lips and that cotillard smooth voice. i am a noun and my name is also the word for how men describe the action of loving me, owning me, killing me. a group of beautiful women is called a bevy, i learned the day before i died; i knew brothel, girls, grrls, chicks, chiquita, ellas, never bevy, the tip of the tongue taking a trip of two steps down the palate to tap, twice, on the lips. but i’ve later learned a single woman hanging from the ceiling of her home is called a proverb, first you give a man a woman to feed him for a day, then give him a wife, and you foreshadow him holding me in hands that foreshadow fists, the glisten of my viscera in moonlight. the plural of deceased is the same as its singular, and look, i knew this was coming, nature’s grammar of beauty as symmetry and the noun-verb agreement both explaining why i die and die again when the lens butchers me into a billion flawless pixels. but just look at how my lips catch the light: you don’t create something without wanting to hold it under your camera and call it anything but yours.