Thursday, February 9, 2012

A poem that, perhaps, only girls can understand...


If only they knew that her smile
was painted on like a clown and if
they knew that she was limping
because                        she ran
so many                      miles so
fast as                          if she
could be                       as slim as
these                            columns as
if she                           could leave
her mind                      behind her,
still                              S   C   R   E   A   M   I   N   G
MURDER                  and if
they only                    knew how
she scrubbed off her crusted mascara
every morning, clawing away at the
funeral-black mess congealed with old tears,
as if she were scrubbing away the night.

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