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Ana is strangely lovely,
with one of those faces I see in cold New York crowds.
Paper skin over jagged bones
and the dark circles under her eyes,
ghastly shadows,
like she lived off of hard determination.
If I study models in glossy magazines
I see Anas in their eyes
and I feel their torment.
For Ana is the imaginary friend
I can never outgrow,
never leave behind
as merely an etheral impression in a box
full of plastic dolls
she told me were too big
to be beautiful.
Instead she buries sharp nails of insecurity
into my neck -
leacing iron, hot on my tongue.
(The only think I can taste
without guilt.)





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