Tuesday, February 1, 2011

Suitcase Suite: #8

I hide behind 
the mask of 
another language,
an assumed identity,
I pretend to be
I pretend to breath
I pretend to bring 
the food on the
table
my body on the fresh
sheets
my face in front of
the cold morning mirror.
Merriment
is 
no
longer
a pleasure
when it has become
carnevale perpetuo. 

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