by Thylias Moss

    Snow White was nude at her wedding， she's so white the gown seemed to disappear when she put it on.

    Put me beside her and the proximity is good for a study of chiaroscuro， not much else.

    Her name aggravates me most， as if I need to be told what's white and what isn't.

    Judging strictly by appearance there's a future for me forever at her heels， a shadow's constant worship.

    Is it fair for me to live that way， unable to get off the ground？

    Turning the tables isn't fair unless they keep turning. Then there's the danger of Russian roulette

    and my disadvantage： nothing falls from the sky to name me.

    I am the empty space where the tooth was， that my tongue rushes to fill because I can't stand vacancies.

    And it's not enough. The penis just fills another gap. And it's not enough.

    When you look at me，know that more than white is missing.