dried paint


There was morning glory in her pursed lips
Airplanes crashed into her heart-
causing rubble and blue fires that cackled and begged
Love pinned her to the walls

She was melted with the paint that dried marvelously slow, in corridor crevices
Men could never love her
She didn’t fit what they were taught to love
They could see hunger on her fingertips
They always came back for more-
taking big bites
If only she was outlined in dandelions and glistening movements
But she was old linen closets in halls
covered in dust clouds
She caused a nostalgia that stung anyone who returned
They always returned.


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