“The bitch in the photograph

wears my face. I cut off my nose,

her nose collapses.

Chop down my hair &

hers shrieks from the sink.

How many poems do I

have to write ‘til she

gets dead, how many

live-wire syllables?

I drive a fork into her

heart & she comes back

a quart of blood-hyped milk.

Some girls are daughters,

& some are ghosts.

I will always love what strays.

It’s just the orphan in me.

I have stolen everyone

I ever loved.”