Self-Portrait in the Morning By Kaitlin Kan

Self-Portrait in the Morning

Spattered with freckles,
I cannot escape the sun
while hidden in my lair.
Lips bloodied in hatred,
frosted in apologies.
Remnants of nightmares
in the watercolor bruises
cradling my blushing eyes, hair
braiding and unbraiding itself
in tendrils, still sleeping.
Have I always looked like chaos?
looking back at me
with years of regret
and a birthmark so often
glittering in the tracks of tears.
The lights went out
with the kiss of electrodes,
dousing the embers in my cheeks
with the curse of tomorrows.
I am a beautiful corpse indeed.
I wipe the toothpaste from my mouth
with the back of my hand;
morning is always
a ritual of lamentation.

By Kaitlin Kan


Kaitlin Kan is a product of a multicultural upbringing, New England boarding school, and Yale University, where she is currently studying English and psychology. She has been published in Ponder Review, New Plains Review, Anti-Heroin Chic, Sincerely Magazine, Hektoen International, and Sky Island Journal. When she is not writing, she is spending time with her dogs and playing piano.

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