“Your face is an off-white off-the-wall color.”
Like the overexposure in a photograph,

no matter how many times you shake a
Polaroid picture, my face will remain flush

with the borders of the printed image. I've
drained the life out of my face to the point

that I can blend in with the winter. The other
girls here have branded me with the name

Polar Bear. I am still unaware if it's a
reference to my size or absence of color;

or both. The dark circles around my eyes
should be renamed light, because it's the

only way to accurately describe the slight
difference in pigmentation on my otherwise

completely pale skin. My blood-stained lips
are the one thing that can be seen when

the sun hits my face in the morning. You
used to kiss them without hesitation.

My body has even stolen the honey brown
iris from my eyes, resolute in finding some

sort of substance to keep me alive. I've
turned my skin transparent; if you placed

my veins inside of a bottle of water you
would have, in your hands, the spitting

image of my thighs. I didn't realize how
much the shade of my face had changed

until you walked straight through my spine,
ribs, and ghost limbs in the narrow hallway

of our old apartment on your way to work,
forcing me to look in the mirror and see the

absence of someone you used to call
sweetheart.