French Kiss the Mona Lisa

By Breia Gore
I learned to disobey them at a young age- all the wild animals begging for me to be thrown as meat and I, unwilling, to be thrown as be thrown at all. I am not meat, I am a woman.
If my fingers could sing, they would be smooth jazz silver digging into all the rights. If my eyes could dance, they would be copper pierrots all over the iris in pale pink. If my lips could move monuments, they could french kiss the Mona Lisa into weeping. I do not need a mirror to tell me this.

Between the a.m. radio airwaves, the parallel girl crying at midnight, and the color lilac-somehow, I am exalting at my own feet.

If they would like to take away my looking glass into their own deadly, brass knuckle altercations- they cannot. Come nighttime, there are five mirrors around my house and I have conquered them all. My kaleidoscope whispering is not theirs, you will not find me picking up shattered pieces.

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