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by Christine Jupp about a year ago in surreal poetry
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Christine Jupp

Photo by Jong Marshes on Unsplash

I am eye socket candy

Raging, vacant


Mind shut legs open

Chest splinter

Into what looks like


Maybe if I hold my head

Like this

Take your hand the way

I have

I can method act myself


I believe it.

He yells action,


One more time from

The top.

I try again

Until my tears roll over,

But I lack the moxy

To keep him

from her bed.

I am different now

In the aftermath of death.

It was my job to save his life.

He was my masterpiece

My life's work

My brother

With the eyes that couldn’t look

At me

Even though they were trying

So hard

So yellow-white

Broken glass blue

With shards from that syringe

You held in your


And carved other half

Of my body

My everything


Until you are chipped paint

Where my skin

Used to be,

Layers of hot wheels tracks

And suicide threat

Phone calls.

I miss my baby face,

My lungs that used to be pink.

I miss the life

You could have had

I miss last summer me

With non-monogamy

That I found


I was a monster with

At least a million

Eyelashes to bat

And 20,000 breasts.

I was legs of slender stilts

And hands that could sculpt


Into Aphrodite

Using his heart

As my clay.

Now look


I am street mean Persephone

Bone dry

Missing my baby face,

My epiphany.

I am Flat Stanley

Taking pictures of myself

Just to prove to myself

that I was



I still don’t believe it.

Instead, I sculpt my cheeks

Into something

Less than

Soon-to-be 28

And I get

“Rock on”

Stamped on the back

Of my right hand.

Instead, I call out

So drunk I can’t see my logic.

So I give up

On the monster

I was

And build my creature


Turn these whitewater tears

Into bubble bath


Ignite the full-frontal fake-out,

Watch how fast these feet

Can switch places!

I’ll drop your jaw

As I bend,

Not in weaknesses.

In contortion,

I fit into any shape

This pain has created

With 0.00 percent

Broken bones

And I am eyes-bright


That can look into


And show them

Why they deserve

To be


My new great masterpiece

Is my clay heart

My new life's work

Is making my


Steady enough

To shape it.

surreal poetry

About the author

Christine Jupp

I call Portland my home, even though I don't see it often.

Mostly poetry.

Some prose and short stories.

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