as if anger can make words bleed—

it’s the early morning sentimentality that simmers
behind her eyes, while she breathes in
and out, one breath
after another.
she’s not as perfect as
silent china dolls,
far from fixed
porcelain faces,
and maybe a little more broken up inside. she’s
inferior in every way, incompetent in every case,
hates clichés and lives in one, pretending
that anger can cut like knives—

as if.