Thursday, January 7, 2010

anything.

These gloves have seen our fingerprints,
know our crimes,
are aware of our guilt.
These empty costumes know who
we've been,
have swallowed our bodies whole.
Your empty tube of lipstick
yearns to be something else,
now that it has known your face.
Your empty skin
paces round a crowded room,
wishing it knew life
other than
a closet of other skins.

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