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Island in gathered
Lavender sheets
Lilliputian dregs congeal
- Missed shots in the dark

Slack-mouth “no”
Echoes in peeling paint

Globules of restrained ***
Hollow my form

I touch my own lips
Not consenting to their last
Tryst.

Marlboro reds cling to
Salivary memory
Turning in my tongue –
Tucked along the
Cusp of my teeth

Pressing
Trying to expel the taste
I spit

Flecks spatter amidst
His-release…
This was written from a prompt in class. We were instructed to write from "the shadow," or the darkness within. I was given the words "****** *******." I went into the shadow, and I am not certain if I like what came out, but I will not ignore what did surface.
I'm a pretty pathetic poet
I'm not up at 3am pouring my heart out on white canvases
Or composing wonderful literature about love
Fact is in asleep before most of you eat dinner
Just sitting in my room thinking about the pack of Marlboro lights hidden under my bed
There's no great epiphany I can right about
I'm not a Emerson, a Whitman, or a Dillard or a Hull

I'm not a poet.

— The End —