His fingertips
glide over her glossy nails,
their smooth surface
slippery under his hands.
These acrylic attachments
burn in his mind
and show him
the inside of her.
Green eyes
and pale cheeks
shimmer in the bright lights
of stark rooms
and he still thinks
she’s beautiful.
She puts on
false faces,
as fake as her embellished fingertips,
but sometimes
he sees beyond
the transparent walls
she holds up.
He wants to brush
the locks of her hair
from her eyes
and pick up the pieces
of her heart,
but he knows
he will never find them all,
that she has lost
as she has grown.
He still searches,
follows behind,
allows his fingers
to accidentally meet her own.
He pretends
to like her nails,
those plastic pieces
she uses as her identity,
because he can’t say
he really likes her.


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