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American Primitive

Her smudged face in the bathroom mirror, seen from bruised sheets. The open mouths of high heels one face down drunken, the other gaping. Headlights strafe the curtains, a scant dress clings to the oily back of a chair. The room has washed up on the grey surf of dawn. She walks back into the room. Her slip white as bone, sallow skin dimpled by day-peep. In the dark, she told you her story as you drowsed beneath a shadow mind. You did not want to know her and now she won’t look at you as she leaves. When she’s gone, you lay for a long time in your cotton shrouded tomb; it is way too big for how you feel.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2021




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Date: 10/13/2021 12:13:00 PM
I absolutely love the imageries and the metaphors of this poem! Awesome;
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Eric Ashford
Date: 11/15/2021 7:18:00 AM
Thank you so much Silpika!

Book: Reflection on the Important Things