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the faces of the mirror

hot air bleeds from the shower,
wrapping its damp body against
the chilled mirror – i fear her, sometimes
especially when i’m minutes from midnight
and the glow of ugly lighting makes the angles
of my bones grow shadows around the hollows
of my eyes, slowly, the mirror is a sheet of milk
i could drape hearts across the surface
with my fingertips, but i don’t want to grip
her face and peel the skin away,
because then i’d be left staring back at myself,
trying not to let myself get in the way
i’m minutes from midnight, somewhere
in the grey

___
backdated Post a Day poem for August 26th, 2017

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