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Michelle Rose Jan 2013
your lips,
painted the finest shade of crimson
gently tighten,
preventing the truth from pouring out

your eyes,
lined the smokiest tone of gray
slowly close,
shielding the pain from exposure

your collar bones,
protruding the way you always dreamed of
shy away,
covered by endless scarves

your vertebrae,
resembling the perforations of a page
sink down,
wrapped in layers of fabric

the measures taken
to hide the mess you've become
can't manage to speak louder
than the demons in your head

— The End —