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Cherry Mornings on a Pie Fresh from Vanity
there is beauty in bad writing. there is the choice
to change; a natural sleet of fine snow.
when she looks up only the ceiling and the skylight windows to her left
the cat who balances her entire weight on her ribs
when it is late the girl comes to take off her clothes
the window is always open; she imagines someone with
a pair of binoculars;
looking through.
It is a movie. the fur is soft yet beneath is the
floor, so blasé it will not hear your cry.
the ink blurs if you write on cloth; something about
loud melodious music – it sings to the air when she has lost
oh, you were, you are the sky
you are the salvation to call her home, and she only
looks; framed in sunlight still tinged with rain
the Mona Lisa taps her fingers on the table – you know:
Mona isn’t beautiful. they say she is but she’s
just another ancient figurine.
the hair that grows long and in turn longs for your touch
she dreams of purple evenings and midnight suns.
imperfection is her perfection and she, anguished by that
that was not, would not, would never, could never be
what she wanted.
you know she lied. the blink of still eyelashes
a heavy coat to shrug off when the day whispers
goodbye.
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