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The polish is gold
On my first trophy
From a 7-year-old chess tournament
It sits on a shelf, a queen
Glaring down the right side of your bed

The second one, silver,
An ice-skating competition
Freely-falling on thin ice
I twirled with you within me
A senseless, beautiful dance

You grew mad at the third
And threw my face against the copper ground
I had conquered her
Yet you conquered me
“P=F/A”, you said,
As you pounded my knuckles against the door

The verdict: this cage is not mine,
Because I am a fish, and not a bird,
So I asked for some water and drank
All eight gallons of it at once

If you wanted a trophy
You didn’t need to go to all this trouble

All you needed was:
A rope
A picture frame
And somewhere to hang my head on
The blessing and the curse of life is that the self is made out of other people. 
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Submitted on
January 6, 2015


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