blush

laughter.
ever similar to chocolates
and honest wine
that somehow tricks you
into thinking it’s a child.

strawberries, freckled with life.
grapes, suppressed and bitter.

these aren’t alike,
and I fear my sight’s gone myopic.
it always has,
since I cried at twelve
when my father found duty
in telling me,
“You’re living a fantasy.”

she thinks she can go to Hollywood,
but the girl’s not pretty enough.
I guess I have me to thank.

in just a few years,
I confidently boast
my abilities to fit
into sadly upholstered suitcases.

sleep in a doghouse,
argue with squirrels.

every day I’ll pour my tea.
especially if I’m the only one here.

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5 thoughts on “blush

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