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'Cause Men Don't Make Passes


'The Italian Girl Resting on her Elbow' by Paul Cezanne

I was nine the day chalk faded
Moved forward again, again
Til they pronounced mine broken
Fitted me with plastic extras
Accessorized with strange laughter
I gathered it unto me as light
And was somehow special.

When dust sharpened back to white,
Shapes revealed themselves code broken
I knew the numbers and the names
Took them in with my clear crutches
I could sit anywhere
But had to adjust for sunshine, steam, raindrops
Tears, and other inconveniences.

At seventeen, I became intimate
with the broken parts.
Wet and wetter
Hungry to ditch my dark outlines,
Technology provided the equivalent
Of Cinderella's fairy godmother.
Oh, the boys flocked!
But magic has its limits
Right before sleep,
Early mornings
I paid a small price.

Finally, I find a wizard, doctor
He makes two tender cuts
Gives me one hell of laser light show
Under water even
Burns years microscopic
Unshackled,
I cast off frames, walls.
Stepping bold from behind curtains
After twenty-three years,
I am clearly my own hero.

 


Sage goes towards what scares her and has marks to prove it. She's been called her an intense woman who asks too many questions. People seem drawn to her for absolution. Her hobbies include laundry therapy and hugs.


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