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C major This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine.

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if i were a Soul Singer,
i would say that the stubble
on your left cheek
is actually sandpaper, and that your skin is
crinkled like some cigarette you ground
into the
sidewalk
last night

but i am no Soul Singer,
although there was a cigarette last night
that I twirled between my jagged fingers,
ceaselessly,
as you played a broken concerto on
my father's old piano

you strike a C major and ask me what
i think,
and i don't have the heart to tell you that i
never did like major chords,
because isn't hearing the minor ones
like looking in a
mirror?

all i can do is pin up my cracked lips
as if they are
photographs (black & white),
and press them to
your eyelids
we stay like statues until
my fingers stop twirling,
until the piano keys sputter under newly fallen
ash;

no,
i am no Soul Singer, and something
sinks when
i realize
my eardrums are still tangled
with that C major you played
when
the moon was peering down …
i guess i won't have a reason
to get dolled up now,

will i?

This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.




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