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Dec 2016
she rises up like smoke
in my head, on my mind
the type, your type, his type
serving up a plate of whatever you want
in the middle of the night
boys drive fast cars, men **** fast girls
is what she says to me, this
picture of insanity licking the blood mary
off a bee-stung bottom lip and I pound the mirror
with my fists, angry at unshattered glass
that the futility of who she is and who I am
isn't enough to break the barrier between us
so I stare into it, paint my face and sway to idle melodies
as everything she is drifts into me in flecks of color
absorbing the mosaic of femininity I have laid out for myself
standing up a little taller as my steps click across the floor
siphoning out the essence of the her, the me, the unreachable dream
the mask becomes the costume becomes the armor
the girl that moves you in a cool blue lounge
is as real as the way you want her
there and gone without a sound
dancing in the air of your cigarette exhale
Written by
   Hannah, Connor Ruther and Corvus
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