In the Darkroom
In the darkroom, she sat near the window.
Her swollen lips pressed against the glass.
Thinking of her abusive past,
With her last breath left,
Her eyes begin to cry tears,
of blood that streak down the broken glass,
from pane to pane across the French window.
Bleeding and dripping blood upon the sill.
As her body lay still over the pane,
Of glass with her lips pressed
against the French window.
Copyright © Mike Porter | Year Posted 2021
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