You have bleached her skin,
rose her from the dead,
peeled away her decay
with your two hands.
You grated away all her cracks and lumps
then polished her to a shadow.
A new shape,
a rubbery clean slab of a thing.
Flawlessly renewed to young
the winter coloured fake.
To touch her is to touch a doll,
a cool stone mantle.
Too new a thing.
Too bright to stay near.
A taut stretched disguise,
each cheek a smooth white egg
and not a hint of blood underneath.
That dug up, stone of a woman
so far from fragile, a maze of fingertips,
all solid throughout.
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