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it licks its thumb
and rubs femme, pink flush like puffy paint upon my cheekbones stained; ashamed. it spits red flecks beneath my lower lashes, thin veils over vessels of blood; baggage. it lives in dips with cold fingertips in the mirror molding my ribcage snowfall; frail. it cuts my tongue with safety scissors a valentine sending love to my stomach; sick. it glues each hand to each upper arm, rounds each shoulder, tucks each tear away. object; held. it takes a step back, the study of its arts and crafts unfolding into human; still. |
Molly A. Green is an emerging writer from Western Pennsylvania who has been published in the literary journals Pulp, Crêpe & Penn, The Raven Review, and The WEIGHT Journal. She is a staff member for The Incandescent Review, BatCat Press, and Shambles literary journal. Outside of writing, Molly enjoys drawing portraits and spending time with her pet cat, Cornflake.
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