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it is the thin line of hair removed
that makes me wonder.

don't want to introduce my self into your story personas do not matter but my bushy eyebrows their delicate hairs do battle with your vague pencil strokes, muy linda, and i want to ask what has been ripped from you?

caring for an elder beyond age, ninety-six and tottering, you speak of him as one would a grandfather, treasured uncle, long lost, years at sea, brother. what binds you to care of the elderly with the same fervent passion you clean my house dust my books?

the immigrant tale is old on your face you do all this and have a nine to five complete with beating boyfriend in jail as he raised his fist to your jaw, you jailed him; dared him to ever hit you again.

but i see the pencil lines that are what remain of those delicate hairs built to protect the eye and i wonder, why do i never hear spanish from your obviously mechican mouth? anglo last name a puzzle, i want to visit your home meet your mother understand what you teach the niece who came once to help out the uncle's girlfriend who stands in the shadows says nothing.

you say you work so constantly to avoid thought of boyfriend you miss so deeply whom you would jail again in a minute. and i remain drawn to the mark of your eyebrow pencil eyebrows sign of hope for beauty, hope for glamour, desire, and a fury that plucked every hair out.

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