Re:
I am not the girl my mother made.
That creature breathes no more, is as dead as the cracked dirt on an expanse of desert in Arizona,
which I have yet to see myself.
That girl exists in two dimensions; she
opens her lipglossed mouth and nothing escapes it
save the heat of Western wind on baked-hot tarmac.
Oh how I would mourn,
if I missed
her.
This poem is about:
Me