Painting my lips, glossy red as the peeling paint covering the cracks in the old, all-knowing walls.
Before I leave, his seed still drying on my legs, nagging thoughts pull at the corners of my blanket of happiness.
Later, an overflowing bath and still, the same lingering taste, niggling thoughts resurface while I hum a song, not happy, not sad, immutable as the tide, wishing I could wipe my mind clean as I do the steamy mirror. The crow at the window goading me with his fixed stare is just an extension of buried emotions, things that have no place in a life wrapped in lace. And yet, the double edge of a mind that will not rest can seem like a curse, when the ghosts, chased away long ago, tug with cold fingers in their unrest, and cover the peaceful daylight with a translucent veil.
Through the cigarette smoke…
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