Death Mask

Most days I do not
paint it. It remains a
blank canvas, hollow
eyes upon cotton

white, pale lips that
breathe a thousand
sighs, the nose
destroyed by powder

white. Flecked with
freckles, I had an
affair with the sun
behind the back of

the moon. Tonight
I will paint my death
mask. The blackest 
eyes, the reddest

lips, savour sweet
cider, beg to be kissed.
Turning brown with
the stroke of a brush

I surround myself with
bad influences “Skip
class, let me kiss
your death mask.”

It belongs to me
but will be viewed
by a hundred eyes
in the days after I

decide to die.


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