You just keep pulling strands of her out of your mouth-

and you never figure out

she’s not a real girl,

made of bones and dreams


she’s stained sheets

drying on the clothes line, waiting

for the wind to stop and

the sun to bleach her clean


she’s a haiku

with too many syllables, waiting

for someone to edit her and rearrange her back

into something beautiful


she’s papier-mache

drying into a piñata, waiting

for the bats to swing, knowing

they will never break her all the way

©2017 erin hoffman – all rights reserved

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