There is a Girl in my Neighborhood Attached to Her Makeup Bag

Belayed by beauty
You walk counter
To the mirage
That be your shadow
A denial omnipresent
Stretching over your
Hills, your fields,
Your castles and
Towers that are piercing
Your mind
Into oblivion.

You spend
Long hours
Laboring over a mirror
Sweating
In the harsh sun
Of your youth
Cataloging
Every hair from your
Thin brow
Every bump
Upon the lip
Every line that
Streaks your iris
You suffer
Endless days laying
Robe and
Jewel and extenuation
To your form.

It is
A slow
Execution
An unseen
Tightening
Of a noose
Your body
Is not yours
But is an art piece
Strung up upon
The wall to be
Slobbered over by hounds.

Careful
You must always walk
So not to break
A single molecule
That may threaten
The kingly gift.

Yet you are threatened.

Every pound you pluck
Drives you to madness
Thin as a page
You let the ink of others
Lick all desires
Upon you
With the mirror
You adhere to their every whim
Stripping and
Crushing yourself into
An object
A figure
Being carved from rock and

(Talking to you is like talking to a parrot each word spit up with “yes” and a head nod and if you are bold you’ll give a small smile and a drifting of the eyes and you scrunch yourself so small that I wonder if I am some giant, leering over you, condemning you to some unacknowledged jealousy that you will only admit to your mother when it is late at night and you are certain not a single male body is around to hear you speak ill of your pillows and comforts and of your exalted yet lesser being. And I wonder if you know that the humility of your intellect you tell yourself you have is really just the humiliation of knowing that if you had ever pursued such a feat the men who adore you now as you are – deaf and dumb – would flee from you like deer from a gunshot ringing out in the wild wood.)

You are, so afraid.

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