A Transfer
7ULQLW\ 5ROOLQV ¶ *OLWWHU EHWZHHQ WKH ÁRRUERDUGV Reminds me what I thought It would be, what it could (have) be(en), Now the water runs, pastel pink Off my hair, still running red down my Legs and I’m the embodiment Of the wrong kind of femininity I live in a wing of the clocktower, It’s gilded, burning cold to the touch But surfaced in gold Sometimes I forget and Run my hand along its side before Pulling back, it hasn’t stopped hurting
58
