Hex

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.