Wednesday, April 13, 2011

I, prophetess

a lying bitch from the start
told my mother
it was in their bellies of course
a bit below the mark
smudged stabbing pencil blows
dirtying the white plush
turning it gray
transferring the clench of my
own body, whose purpose
yet unknown but already
complicated, twisted, secretive
pressing me to rest
hours in the basement
hurriedly hide that mirror, and
o! my best friend
sigh at that sweet smoothness even before
life as opposed to non-life
had any meaning but
already a liar

it springs like
mushrooms after rain

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