It’s no good, your words — no legal tender here.
You look at me like I can’t see me — in the dark side of the mirror. These bruises are mine, pinched and pulled — flesh undone I can’t ignore. Unraveled from Circe’s fingertips and you’re enamored with the version of me you think — I am. This extra skin hangs on from times before when I wasn’t mine — stretched and scarred thin. It’s no good, your words — no legal tender here. I’m tucking myself like a too big shirt into pants too tight — can’t afford a tailor. My knees cry, raw rice grains impressed in skin, hidden amongst freckles — where you don’t look too close. I sink into the mirror, flesh in shadow because that is what I can bear — until you are silent.
First published in Burning House Press, July 2018
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