You are my face. Cut with a scratched mirror,

mirror-ing us. We survive off dread. Lips burn swollen.

There is a bloodied tool on the ground, a heart.

It has dropped out of your rib cage, pink-sad.

Rapidly it grows old. I fall to pick it up but shock

disables my hands and you reach for your wine.

All of your sorrows float like pearls in your wine.

Each night you drink it but never notice it in the mirror.

I never drink, but this is not a shock. 

by spdevsmith

Hey, lovely reader! I’m Palmer, and I am a writer usually living in NYC. You can find me walking with my dog, Amy, working with my 97 year old boss or watching the Golden Girls. I am an incoming MFA and MA student, and I hope to teach high school writing and literature.

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