Dear ----, I am trying
to bleach out my affections
as if colours were sick sheep
and there is no help for me anymore,
even you are silent.

So I'll take myself to the laundromat
behind the dumpsters in the dark,
and leave no trail. I'll put a mannequin
in the window of my appartment, typing,
and you'll say, "Same old girl."

And for life I will be bone
I will be feathery snow
and milk and moonlight
performing a spectral ballet
like a music box made of ice.




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