Coping
Mechanism
There’s
a
girl
where
I
used
to
be
from,
colored
her
hair
every
day,
sometimes
bright,
most
times
badly,
or
split
down
the
middle
like
a
schizophrenic.
For
the
love
of
God,
why?
How’d
she
even
recognize
herself
in
that
reflection?
There’s
a
girl
where
I
used
to
be
from,
lived
on
the
corner
of
Washington
&
First.
Her
house
was
invisible,
along
with
her
face
and
most
of
her
clothes.
But
not
that
hair.
That
loud
and
proud
and
muddled
crown.
Working
late
at
bedding
down
under
a
sin-‐stained
mirror.
For
the
love
of
God,
why?
How’d
she
even
recognize
herself
in
their
reflection?
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