Why I Lost

November 2, 2009
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A doll
in a wasteland (this is a wasteland)
and the silhouette of my mother
reeks of sallow disappointment in my mind.
A doll
of wrappers sown together;
labels still visible but barely readable.
A doll of cat hairs
plucked from the indented stitches
of the couch,
and the silhouette of my mother.
red, pricked fingers
since she lost her thimble.
Reeks of loneliness.
The barrel of the gun
pointing at my shadow.
Destroy, destroy the side of me
the side without sun
so dark, without the tiny crystals.
The doll
of broken, plastic china.
Light blue like it should be,
make for studded eyes.
My mother would not be proud
that I spilled the white
She always said,
they can’t take me.
I never leave a trail.
Oh, but they got you.
Never leave the white behind.
Crystal, crystal, destroy
the silhouette of my mother
reeking of her influence.
Reminders of the plucked
cat hairs and
flexible plastic
and lost thimbles.
and crystals.
Floats across this wasteland
floats across her
Down onto the fraying hems
of a doll.

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