Blue Leilani
lush blue syringes
filled with caked on pus
she is not a mannequin
nor a living doll
nor dead space ajar.
She likes to stare
at the backs of her hands
as if at any moment
they would mutate into dust.
She can still feel
their presence
as she reaches out for air
one cup of blue air.
An empty yearning,
an empty gesture,
withheld alone.
Copyright © Chantelle Easterling | Year Posted 2016
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