These eyes

glass bead polished and


blank and sacrosanct and


these eyes can never be mine.

These hands

pink and plasticine

a matching pair of toybox dreams

a skin determined

by design

these hands are nothing like mine.

These thoughts

of sleek black

iron wrought

crystalline, untaught

white-toothed feral

shriekings of the mind

how do these thoughts

feel so much like mine?

This heart


shuttered, gutted

a nuclear reactor overgrown

left behind

who else’s heart

could this be

but mine?

So I send this beast

out to tell others

my tale in false

cadenced words on

a breath slightly stale

details those who don’t know

what to look for

won’t find–

she can be nobody else’s but mine.

–k.b. 04212017

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