"You are dead to me"
when I am dead to myself.
When I see my own soul flutter, fail --
glimmering, gasping:
for breath, for flight --
my eyes reflected, trapped, photographed
in my memory in my mirror that lies
that shows the mascara, the ink dripping
dripping peeling falling with the pipes that cracked
when the icy winter hit the ceiling above me.
Salt water seeping from the pipes
salty-smelling, salty-oily smell, staining the wallpaper
that is my face
will NOT be painted over, will not come off.
These tears from tired eyes
in a lying mirror.

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