The Little Martian shimmers into view just as the first melodramatic tear rolls down my cheek.
We are sitting in a poetry workshop, reading, building, breaking words
workshopping other people's experiences, annotating, discussing, working
Poems flit by on the screen, none leave a mark until one cuts too deep
“Corners and fissures and cracks” reads the girl in front of me
My corners fissure and crack, but the martian’s got my back
He lets the tears roll prettily down my face, lets my eyelashes get all aesthetically clumpy, then he gently places his hand on my shoulder
“ Done?” he asks , with a sardonic little smile
He can see right through my melodramatic pseudo heartbreak
“Done” I grin back.
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