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Picasso’s Blue

period cubes
of happiness slant
a cross-section of myself
as if I were pieces
of your voice.

This is love,
I tell myself.
Eyes isolated
in the middle
of my forehead;
three less fingers
than I started out with;
a heart that belongs
to someone else.

To look in the mirror,
I must slide my eyes
carefully past
the face that lies
to me
at odd angles;
green bleeding blue
they stare back
each day,
naked with denial.

All that is left
of me is grey
bared bone.


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