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Porcelain


By Megan Kincaid


Cracking down my porcelain spine
Crushing it into a fine, pale pink powder
Sending it into the wind
Begging life to infuse it with vivacity


Shattering illusions, glossing life with a veneer
Butterfly wings beat down from my eyelashes
Glances full of predisposed meaning
Cotton look and mechanical embraces


But my porcelain spine rises from the ashes
She cannot stay ground
She rises, hardens and cools
As detached and stoic as ever


The wind couldn’t breath life into it
Dewdrops and honey cannot mask the bitterness of salt
The porcelain spine is infallible
Reinvention is shattered on the spine’s cold surface


The porcelain spine is immortal
Veneers are but a paper house
Distorting reality for ephemeral breaths.

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