Spitmilk

our mirror,
rusty at the lip

scissors,
rusty at the legs

cut it the same way
you can do it on your own now

our conversations are a long room
our silence, two-story photo album

curling at the spine

I wanted to give you another face but mine bubbled to the surface and what can you do?

and I think:
the longer you leave it there, the harder it gets to sop up.

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