Saturday 11/24/2007 02:23:00 AM

Little holidays from the heart. In brown sugar hats and gummy bear gloves. Dancing as though alone isn't a monster. Inside her closet. Under her bed. That no one sees, but her.

Deciding who was gone. In the braille she wrote her thoughts in. The blind morality of trust reading what she'd never touched.

Like every liar claims they had good intentions. How every lover says hello with their dirty teeth. The pale pantomimes of girls in search of men.

dismal vaccines cure her of only her desire to overcome.

Big pots of soup make little stains on her spoon. As she tastes what the ingredients have become. Big dogs in little tails. Wagging. Like there's something left to fetch.

She was a pencil. Smudged and self-conscious. She has an eraser at one end. But she's never tested it.

She's a woman. Of course she sees the irony in the men she's loved. All those apples she counted not realizing they'd already been bitten.

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