In her room, there are Christmas lights
Taped to the walls like
Tiny electric waves.

Beneath the lights there are Polaroid
Pictures; in one of them,
She is leaning against a pillar in the
42nd street station, and there is a
Rust-colored circle over her face from
Where the film was over-exposed.
It looks like a
Cigarette burn.

Between the lights and the
Photographs, I can’t even tell
The real color of her room. My eyes
Trail along to the pictures for a
Slice of wall, but as soon as I reach an
Opening, the lights
Blind me.

I run my fingers against the scarred skin on
The tops of her hands, along the parts
That were over-exposed to the world,
Because although we try not to take in
Any more than we can hide,
Sleeves only go as far as
Your palms.

Behind the Christmas lights, I imagine
Her room is light blue, but
I’ll never see, and she’ll
Never show me.