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So Much Truth Is Wasted On The Experienced

Deep inhalations
jagged respirations and blurred images.
She is
pushed in,
stretched and hollowed out.
Finger branches brush against her face,
the meaning sharp and gleaming.
She is a young face I know well.
A blind young woman with a pungent smell
in her nose.
(Perhaps Alcohol?)
She tastes blood.
And its salty swishiness
nestles into the cleft of her left cheek.
She and I wake
together, enmeshed,
feeling puckish, mewling, weak.
We have done it again.
I untangle my legs, unfold my cramped arms.
Rub and soothe the sore left elbow which has born the weight
of our bodies throughout the short night.
I have revisited
a too familiar place.
I have bitten myself
inside my cheek awake.
Sucking on the wound,
I blink.
The fan whirs,
comforting me.
It helps me to think
with its rasping womb sound.
Somewhere slithering underneath, the dream slides,
advancing into the folds of my skin.
"You could have helped women," He said to me.
"You are educated."
"You might have helped yourself."
I think,
I might have been cured,
un-cursed.
So much wasted time
hiding.
So much life wasted
ashamed.
Thirty years.
So much truth in just one sentence.
I am knocked down by it.





Copyright November 10 2011. All Rights Reserved By Author
Melissa A Howells Copyright Meloo of tilt-a-world

Ode to a Good Nights Sleep






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So Much Truth Is Wasted On The Experienced


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