Isabelle Correa

PORTRAIT OF A PERSON WHO PUSHES LOVE AWAY IN FEAR OF LOSING IT

The billboard blocks the moon.
The hurt is a hole and I’m buried.

Purple petals stuck to the bottom of a shoe.
Rain in the ashtray again.

A window cleaner on a skyscraper, a single loose tooth.
A river runs its mouth.

You call and I don’t answer.
You call and I am history repeating.

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