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What You Get from a Pocketful of Sharpies

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She starts with a heart for my head,
Then she illustrates my eyes from
The top of the heart.
She carefully connects my head
From one side to the next,
And draws my antennas
Stemming from my forehead.

At this point she can decide
To pencil in hair
And create my gender.
Leaving me bald,
She finishes my face, like
She always has.

Two puzzled pupils
In distinctive vicinities
Bestow me with
A beautiful confusion,
Like I’ve gone mad.

My stick figure body,
Arms and legs flail,
A dance craze gone wrong.

And I am done, another
Alien on her papers.
Another element of her
Scribbled on a sheet.
Each of us has a story and
Some are just a little bit more
Of her than others.





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