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They say there is a me who is beautiful but I snub her in the chalk-dust hallways, on the bronzed fields. Bare lips pouting in mirrors, parroting joy: whatever is hers, is no one’s. Portraits lie, they lie . . . Satin hair, and a milky cheek bent over an open book: Where does she come from, the mysterious girl, spilling out of my shoebox— her future clumsy as marbles, useless as hearts?
Copyright 2021 Dawn Potter