Sorry, I Only Caught the End of Our Conversation
Fist clenched,
fingernails dig their curves into my skin.
Heavy footprints grow silent.
I unravel my fist slowly;
like an armadillo when it knows it’s safe,
extending my fingers out towards the stale air.
I watch as it sits there,
in the center of my palm,
near my zig-zag scar
Times new roman 12 point black;
B*tch
Staring back at its new rightful owner.
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