Swan Eyes

The pain
of
clawing at my scalp
with blackened nails —

“No, purple,”
I say —
as I rinse
the raspberry
into the dirt-
water
pond of the last 24 hours 

mascara globules
diffusing
like fresh tea
into overcast depths —

is unsatisfactory;
perhaps
the razor will
burn brighter
it is the middle of
the night, after all 

and
I am nude
and
goose-fleshed 

like some ugly duckling
swan princess
in my lake
of
spot cream and
nail polish 

overflow —
how could I
possibly
be this dirty?

The End

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