Real

She undressed the drama to make it real. Nakedness feels strange. Rearranging this and that doesn’t replace the facts. And why does she eat so much? Such are freckles painted as beauty marks, the spot. On, dot to dot, vein to vein stays the same way. Maybe squeeze it all with a deeper breath to fit the dress. It’s messed up.
She’s stuffed emotions in puffy coats to hold her insides unwritten. Shed, seeped, weeped through the skin as misread lipstick impressed on paper, napkins, or a cheek she barely speaks.

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