Idioglossia

Bendable metal
the color of grass

twisted into whatever I like or dislike.
It could be
a man,
the sun,
my hand,
nothing at all.

I think it's impractical, why is it there?
Waste of materials, precious materials.
The cluttered globe has trouble breathing.
It hears me say this

and evolves into a fiend
preparing to dive into my hair
and mold my brain into a guide on how to be
(what everyone expects of you).
I want to scream

but

I-know-it-wants-me-to-so-I-don't.

I twist it into a wand and cast a spell on the world
because oh, how I hate the world.