My skin can flake onto my hands, caked like a cracking wall. The muse buried under sets of eyes staring at the colors on my face, not melanin but thick water-based acrylic paint that created some monster dolled up as a woman. Jewels on my body match the ones hanging above the window. They aren’t catching the sun as I sit on my tear stained floor. Like pages of a book, I watch you silently circle with the Geminis as the moon falls from your mouth like glitter from the dark sky or from the apples of my cheeks as they fall to the ground. Rub the color off of my face with the pads of your fingers early in the morning as we wake up staring at the fluorescent lights in this heat wave fever dream. You claim that the prettiest I've ever been is when I felt smartest; I’m humbled with the effortless beauty pouring from your lips as we wait for the hour of 8 am.
Comments
This is pure poetry. Every word feels is pregnant with meaning, and yet so figurative; every phrase is up for interpretation, shimmers visually, and is flowing or has an intentional clipped effect in the mind's ear. I read this three times and found new surprises and subtleties on both second reads.
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