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paint dripped jeans
dried paint sticks to thread on jeans, she
picks at it but knows she left the detergent under
the bed, the plaster holds too tight anyway. she passes
the perennials, not watered, they
keep growing. remembers brick walls layered with graffiti, and
wonders if she should peel off the paint or peel
back her ribs instead and grasp her fingers between the
vessels so she can lend her heart to preserve the pigment sprayed
stories. look past the fog, neon signs, slick with rain, flicker, and restaurants hold
their breaths. the oxidized machines rumble
with the thunder. she preaches that models are fake,
but spent hours learning to mix colors,
paint drips onto her jeans, it won’t come off
wanting to perfect the shade of her reference’s features. Delineating
the curve of the girl’s lips, she thinks she might
be in love, and so she prays for rain to let the daisies grow
while she waits for notes of confession. in the meantime, she
counts her acrylic chips:
she loves me.
she loves me not.
she loves me…
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