Our face the house that line by line we built,
our skin the record of fierce days, of wine
whose red is in our cheeks. This scar the fine
we paid for passion; shadows of our guilt

under our eyes. Eyes that are startled bright
that we can still feel lust after such years,
valleys around them that were carved by tears
but sometimes joy. We look a perfect sight

when mirrors see us. When our suitors claim
we’re beautiful. We see their peach-smooth cheek
their uncarved eyes and all resolve grows weak.
We’ll let them tell us lies. We know this game

These are the half-meant lies that we once told
when young come back to haunt us now we’re old


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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