Nights my face leaves a print
lipstick and rouge, or more accurately,
the wet shadow of tear peeled mask
dirtying linens--those nights
(balmy winds over an ocean
a thousand miles away,
roaring waters I could drown in
slap cold against bare skin)
are the darkness of the deep
tears, saltwater after all and I
am no more than a girl on a bed
painting a frown on her pillow.
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From @shawnamawna