The Art of Preserving Things

Have I folded your leaves wrong?

Pirate of Dawn,
raiding my quiet
with your white noise
and rounded limbs.

My punishment,
for choosing you above all others,
for framing your symmetry
and preserving your blood?

Every morning,
I wake with your face
pressed to my pillow.

Your perfection mocks me,
because I am not small
and I am not white.

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