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VanessaRuePoems
at the bar—   he does crowd work, sleeves rolled,     thumbs rim the glass.     voice ricochets; the chatter thins.   laughter cracks. brittle. gray static hums. my edges blur.   after—he leans in:     "okay?"     tie slack, silk slipping—     noose at his throat.   he laughs at grief;     shoulders ****     glass catches the light— his father's funeral, a bit.   i write—he asks,     "funnystuff?"     he jokes at funerals. claws curl in my lap. the joke bites—       I won't bare my fangs. he's a shard in a borrowed suit,     confidence stolen from rue. tie still loose—   he doesn't know?
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Oct 19, 2025
Oct 19, 2025 at 10:39 AM UTC
Six Inches From The Noose
at the bar—   he does crowd work, sleeves rolled,     thumbs rim the glass.     voice ricochets; the chatter thins.   laughter cracks. brittle. gray static hums. my edges blur.   after—he leans in:     "okay?"     tie slack, silk slipping—     noose at his throat.   he laughs at grief;     shoulders ****     glass catches the light— his father's funeral, a bit.   i write—he asks,     "funnystuff?"     he jokes at funerals. claws curl in my lap. the joke bites—       I won't bare my fangs. he's a shard in a borrowed suit,     confidence stolen from rue. tie still loose—   he doesn't know?
out of coffee. so it's time to brew the rue
#crowd#fangs
VanessaRue
Written by
VanessaRue
16/F/Mumbai
Oct 19, 2025
Oct 19, 2025 at 10:39 AM UTC
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