It’s Not Me, It’s Me
gathering my hair in one hand and pressing
I transform into a pre-Raphaelite
I could cut off my hair, my arm,
my family for love, but it will not come
no matter that I learn to make asparagus risotto
no matter that I can read the Kama Sutra
upside down no matter that I am good,
that I am healthy, that I can love almost anything
once I get used to it
and gathering my limbs and squeezing
I can shape-shift into Shalott, Salome,
Scheherazade of a thousand stories
all of them about the same person
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