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Porcelain

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I heard her laugh once, and I was jealous because it sounded like
she knew all the secrets to the moments in life that we wish would last
like waking up in winter, body curled up under a blanket
taking in the kind of warmth that feels like someone else, or
lying under the sun and the clear blue sky and realizing that
the world is too big for one person’s dreams, too infinite.
I heard her laugh once, and I thought she was better off than the rest of us
with our worn denim jackets and blood shot eyes.
She would take our hand and give us a look, and every time,
I couldn’t help but pray to God,
because she’s only seventeen.

Damp hair plasters to skin and there’s sweet lingering perfume:
she dances. Our eyes hope to see the unraveling of an angel.
She waves her arms in the air, and we catch a glimpse
of what we regret to see.
Scars like hatching of a drawing decorate
the inside of her wrists, flaunting the truth.
She takes my hand and gives me a look,
but she dances with the angel of death,
who blows a kiss from the lips.

I heard her cry once in the bathroom stall, and I turned away.
I thought she was better off than the rest of us
with our worn denim jackets and blood shot eyes.
But angels don’t exist when you’re unlucky,
damned and dirty.

A blade pierces porcelain skin.
Dear God, she’s only seventeen.




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