white sheets creased sharp
between their twisted bodies,
muscles straining joints to touch
skin cotton refuses to let
feel let you feel
scars from where the sheets broke glass
last time she loved she won't
look in the mirror anymore —you'd kiss her shoulder if she c(oul)d see
instead she moulds white paint like shaving cream
on canvas letting your beard grow
is useless to her grief
a face she doesn't know
written in response to Mag 37
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