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BLOODY MARY

Say your deadname five times

into the mirror. Behind the glass

you fog into horror. The story

always needed the mirror

as part of the fear.

It needed something to reflect

you, the only real

ghost. That she gave herself

a woman’s name was incidental.


There’s blood. It’s your blood.

It’s in the sink on purpose,

pouring out of your eyes, of course,

and Mary clicks her tongue. Mary

lifts your head and kisses your cheek.

She asks kindly if you want her to.

You say your name one last time.


Wristbent slasher film turns

boybot into bricked processor.

Call this a wetware update.

Replicant gentleman on tile

floor, investigations would call it

inconclusive, schoolgxrls will call it

haunting. You will not be here anymore.

You get to walk out of the crime scene, salted 

chalk outline sealing a corpse

full of broken promises. You toss

out your can of shaving cream

on your way out. You kiss Mary.



Nora Hikari is an emerging poet and Asian-American trans lesbian based in Philadelphia. Her work has appeared in Small Craft Warnings, Feral Journal, and Tealight Press, among others, and her poem Deer-to-Fish Transition Timeline has been nominated for the Best of the Net award.    

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