Winter in Missouri
for cold days spent remembering
running on
zero food
too many cigarettes
three glasses of wine
I’m reckless enough to
believe
that I don’t need gloves
to protect my hands
her hair slides through my fingers
the dye feeling more like conditioner
than stain
and I bask in the chemical smell just
as much as a bask
in her laughter
as she tells me about her day
school fights
work arguments
silly boys that think they love her
[how funny she thinks that is]
as her hair darkens
from blonde
to soot black
so do my fingers
and palms
and nails
my addled mind finds
that it looks like rot
About the Creator
Sofia Machado
Here because I'm a compulsive writer that always has stuff to say. Recently published in root & branch and The Louisville Review. Poetry is my first love.
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