By Irene Mason
Shredded paper hair,
Red eyes with red tears,
And a faint smile
On a porcelain face.
Soon, she’ll be
Shriveled up like a raisin.
She snails her body on the couch,
Willing herself not to move,
Not to feel the feathers poking her pores,
Jabbing her flesh.
Her eyes open wider.
Who knocks on the door?
He invades her thoughts
And devours her mind,
Slowly gobbling brain cells
That would have kept her
At a distance.
Dare she call his name?
It slurs off her tongue
And tastes like wine.
They talk about the weather.
Then, the conversation
Digs deeper,
Like nails in a wall.
Will she leave her comfy, lumpy couch?
She hammers out a decision.
‘Tis better to lay still
And remember the taste of wine
That once lingered on
Her tongue.
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