< Issue 1 >
Faces
by Amani Breanna Alexander
the face I’ve made
and kept
for her to come back to
is ready to pretend I see something of her
in everyone else.
in the ones that don’t have hands like she does.
in the ones that have clear tongues.
no burns like she does.
she has a scar on her tongue.
it’s wet, and black.
like the remains of my chest.
it’s all mud.
nothing this ancient should feel as domestic
as it does.
but I only notice
when I try to wipe my face of her.
and become mutual with the mirror.
become human enough to love like I never have.
to become woman enough to love with my fists,
all of my gut, and clavicle.
once you’ve wiped yourself clean,
all you do is wait for someone to smudge.
and let things become mud again.
but not always like her tongue.
it’ll be different next time.
this is what I’ve learned of authenticity.
this is what I’ve learned
of how to give second chances,
and have second loves
when the first one
plays hide-and-seek with your conscious.
HTML Comment Box is loading comments...