Saturday 10/20/2007 01:00:00 AM

The hideous smile in her crotch. Posing staunch for the artist in his pants. The vengeful child in her head. Rubbing the leaves into the concrete. Portraits of life drawn with the dead.

The act driven by strangers' pretty hatred. They don't sing. They blame. And accuse her. Of things too true.

When it gets dark she scolds herself in breaths of cigarette smoke. When she gets lonely she thanks her demons for their generosity.

Not here. In this graveyard we eulogize as touch. Not now. All these tears we have no explanation for except that we don't understand what it is we've lost.

I just know some thing's gone. I'm not gone from it, but it is gone from me. Jagged lipstick pouring its code upon her grin. Words like mosquito bites scratched into her face.

The itch of submission. Paints itself under her nails.

There's nothing to change except herself.

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