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Shattered Glassi was afraid to pick up the shattered glass
i was afraid it would cut my fingers
but i had to try
at least looking at the fragments was a start
each cutting word that tore away at me
each backward glance from that pretty girl
the one with the freckles and unfriendly smile
she said it was impossible to be friends
i was too ugly
i didn't understand
i thought i was pretty
i saw big brown eyes and light skin
a complexion with hints of pink and the freckles that i liked
my sisters said I was pretty
but i guess the kids at school didn't think so
i started wondering what ugly was
and i started looking for the ugly things
like the shape of my nose or the size of my teeth
the way my hair wasn't sleek like other girl's
or the way my second toe was a little longer then my first
and i began to believe them
i saw it chip away at the glass
and i couldn't pick up the pieces that fell
they would cut my fingers
i tried to prove i was pretty
gathering evidence for myself in other people's eyes
Who Goes First?I won't hug you
until you say you're sorry.
I won't say I'm sorry
until you give me a hug.
tummy talkinghalfway between her head and her toes
i spend most my life beneath a veil
too thick to see through but warm and soft
and i'm comfortable here, shielded from the prying, judgmental eye
which i know she avoids even more then i do
the usual is a glimpse of light
when one piece of cloth is replaced with another
and once in a while i get to see myself when she finds a private moment to peer at me
sometimes her green eyes seem curious, gazing at our reflection in the glass
at other times she is loathsome and i wonder what i could have done
to make her hate me so much
but i especially like the hot showers she gives me
where i am completely exposed, feeling no shyness or fear
i am caressed gently by a lather of soap suds and her purple loofa
and i feel loved and beautiful in spite of myself
then on rare occasions during summer days
i am unveiled when we are alone outside
and i can stare upward into the sky
as rays of warmth pour down over me,
soaking in, becoming a part of us, moist and golden
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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