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Porcelain Skin

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I break so easily, in my porcelain skin.
Make albino jokes, I don’t mind.
I’ve always thought pale was pretty.
I’ve always loved the color white.

White and orange are unnatural colors, together
Be dark chocolate, a deep sweet berry,
Be the fallen leaves, or the snow.
But decide. Just remember how easily porcelain breaks.

Now I’m blue and white, a broken America.
A coward, no red blood brave enough to shed.
My veins burst from myself, reminders of my own vanity,
I look like porcelain, expensive, unwanted, traced,


By the hands of a child.
I am at once ancient, dusty,
But also as vivacious as life itself.
I was made, molded by an artist.

Given away, traded, bought.
I was sold. I sold myself.
I kept myself. Hidden away –
I broke.


Many times.
I shattered.
People stole pieces of me,
I gave away pieces of myself.

I picked them up and glued them
Back together, but sloppily done,
So help me, Lord
I am made of porcelain skin.





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