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For Those Girls Who Talk

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Your love is ugly, they say, you can do so much better.

I suppose the lips that tell me
I am the most beautiful girl he has met in his life;
That I am an angel who has lost her wings;
That I describe what it means to be truly perfect;
That I am the love of his life;
That he wishes every moment with me would last forever;
Are thin and filled with crooked teeth.

Or perhaps the arms that pull me close as we slow dance,
Take my trash down when he visits my house,
carry me home when I grow faint,
Hold me tight when I am shivering and shaking,
Perhaps they are too thick and pale.

Shall I even start with his hands?
Worn with the callouses which write love letters in messy handwriting,
Shaking my father’s hand as he approaches the door,
The hands that deliver a cup of banana ice cream
When I am too ill to walk out the door.
And his fingers!  It is terrible how such thick hard stubs
Brush delicately against my cheek,
wiping away tears when I cry!

But his eyes by far are the ugliest,
For they look deeply into my own,
Small and blue, thin and swollen,
And they see two children,
A girl and a boy in a small house in the suburbs,
They see a dog, a golden retriever of course,
They see himself returning home from his daily grind,
And they see me, not already home, but driving home,
From a long day of hard work as well. 
They see infinite possibilities,
They see a ring on my finger,
A smile on my face,
And a future for the futureless.

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