Re:

I am not the girl my mother made. 

That creature breathes no more, is as dead as the cracked dirt on an expanse of desert in Arizona, 

which I have yet to see myself. 

That girl exists in two dimensions; she 

opens her lipglossed mouth and nothing escapes it 

save the heat of Western wind on baked-hot tarmac. 

Oh how I would mourn, 

if I missed 

her.

This poem is about: 
Me

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