All of the candles burning down so fast.
My feet are covered in blisters, full and round,
like paper lanterns,
I am sticky with orange salve.
I'll never end up like Lucrezia--
I don't know why I have her portrait on my wall,
the resignation of her face,
simple brush-stroke of a stab wound,
she is hanging on to the curtain,
she will do it again,
her hand on the knife is ready,
bits of pomegranate seeds
stuck in her molars,
a small good sweetness, brief color
in a barren gray life.
Lucrezia lacked, lacking in luck,
lacking in light.
Forgot to crawl beneath the sprawl
of the sun.
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