Manic panic is
punching through a canvas
that is painted with my fists.
There are mirrors singing of mirrors
and all eyes are on
the kaleidoscope girl who shifts
in and out of frame.
Go on, gulp and tug
with butterhands at the hem.
You can, if you try, you can hide
the hem of your lie.
They won't know
They won't know
They won't guess at all
That the working fracture
conceals a leopard.
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