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g r a v e l
A L I T E R A R Y J O U R N A L
Ha Kiet Chau
Her glass appearance startles,
I want to shampoo her matted hair,
zip up her bellbottom trousers,
iron her tank blouse, but she’s
not a touchy-feely kind of gal.
She copycats my facial expressions
like the Mona Lisa.
If I furrow my brow, she’ll glower.
If I stick out my tongue, she’ll howl.
If I smear mint balm on her mouth,
she’ll rebel, lick it all off.
I should love her, but I don't.
Internal dialogue is cruel.
Voices echo cold: I can’t look at her.
Voices in denial: I don’t recognize her.
A mirror shatters to smithereens,
our glass reflections crack like ice.
I sweep up the mess with a broom.
I can’t pick up my broken bits,
don’t want a new scar.
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