Please read the work of a talented writer.


Bourbon spilled wood that decorates 
the bones of these lowly places you avoid,
knows how many tears I've been leaving behind.
Mascara has been running unchecked,
while the glass has painstakingly memorized
the weak grasp of my cold trembling hands, 
traced the tremors of my mumbling lips. 
I let them fall - the angry tears -
unabashedly letting anyone see
through the rift into my bleeding heart.

It is scandalous.
Nearby someone whispered to their beloved
that I left my dignity at home,
that I need to Lyft the hell out of there
before I embarrassed myself some more. 
But the stares, a fine mesh of lewdness and pity
no longer nudge my cares as I let it all show,
the bareness of my weeping soul. 

That dress you said clings to me in all the right places,
now reeks of cheap cigarettes & smoke rising
from the charred dreams of you loving me. 
Someone kind has…

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