What if I were broken? For Chyna

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If the cabbage roses and obscene vines shattered

Into hundred of killing points

If I kept trying to push myself back together until

The repairs—glue like new, annular, scars—were more visible

Than the roses, Clytemnestra, Jeanne DArc, and Little Buckaroo?

Than the velvet pockets inside of them, their shorn, sharp, thorns?

I wanted a pretty, feminine name, with a kick

Like me, stronger than 16 tons but bikini-licious.

She is really a man, was the rumour but I’m not I’m a girl. 

A girl like the roses, whose head gets heavy so quickly and drops,

A girl whose girl smell has been bled from her over the years

A girl who can’t stop life from mauling her, only scratch

Only cry but never in front of you: I filled the glass pitcher, inversely,

And swallowed sugar swallowed pennies and one day, so what, I

Didn’t wake up.

She seemed like she was a little loopy. 

I made my WWE debut choking a blonde fan, Is that a woman? the 

Announcer asked (I would always miss wrestling’s willful loathing of sex categories)

Then, That woman is being dragged away, 

I was fierce and tousled, mysterious and beautiful,

There were rose buds blooming on the bed when the paramedic 

Said, She’s gone, and she cried, the boy cried,

On the box of dirt and curious, wondrous blooming. 

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