Chameleon

I want to be
a good chameleon.
I scale myself
in iron,
in laughter
and every kind of green.

And he could still
be kindling,
and fan a flame
in my cold blood,
if he would
but try his influence —
but is busy
with the mirror
and all the girls
of summer —

and does not see
how I live out dreams,
safe and untouched
in this prison of page,
where words are
inconsequential
as smoke.

And he does not see
how I am
a good chameleon.

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About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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