September 19, 2006


There is a luxury
to being fragile.

No one expects
a small, pale, emaciated creature
with scarred wrists
and haunted eyes

to suck it up
and deal with it.

When you are tall,
and wear red lipstick
and a Wonderbra;

when you talk like a sailor,
and fuck like a whore,
and joke
like your life depends on it,

people laugh with you,
and the laughter
is deafening.

No one expects
you to be anything
but strong

when you show no signs
of being


Spring 2006.

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