my revolution wears dirt like lipstick and god d|ess the blood is gorgeous if you'd just get close enough to taste my scrapes under gauze & plaster I fell on the ice again in practical shoes I'm not authentic — just clumsier than you gagamama gold your shoes while I scrape mud from soles we made you my boobs are deadly too suffocation instead of flame I don't need to be a cyborg but I am playing one in bed to be ugly to be human, barely to be grotesque how often must I cut my hair to repair split ends into artifice? once you're heeled you can't control falling more than my feet can change the snow
Written in response to Big Tent Poetry’s Monday Prompt for 3 January 2011 (aka my birthday).
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