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Why me?
If anyone, Poseidon.
Your uncle.
Who left me in a corner
robe wet hair clumping
from fighting him off.
His very presence
exuded the smell
of rotting fish.
You found me
washed my skin
douched me
with rose water.
Did he say I flirted?
Tossed my hair?
Did he play the blood card?
Pupils like swords
forehead in crinkles?
Was that the moment
you deserted me?
copyright 2019
Chella
Courington |
