Wordle 202

202

Words by Brenda Warren

Your fingers knead

My might, an intrinsic sting

Just shy of pulverizing.

I dress only to hide the emptiness

Of my left breast pocket.

Old scars matted down with saliva.

Blood might not make the cannibal

But it certainly sharpens the teeth.

The smack of a puerile wind

All your excuses trampled

Into the dirt and once planted

I wait for the truth to begin.

There’s a cocoon within us

That holds the other fast.

The drive is long

Strings of conversations

Plaiting the bridge of our smiles.

This is a trip that never ends,

A club to the back of the head

Knocking the breath free

One rampage away from yesterday

We’ll kill each other, we always do.

For

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