Her Still Figure
The ripples on the bedsheets do not match her husband's. She even cheats the water.
She finds the mirror paler than the sky. Her face is caught in the frame. She stares at her skin, as dry as cobwebs, but her eyes are as lakes in moonlight.
The dawn through the window does not match her tears. The air does not breathe through the womb. The bedroom is her prison, her thoughts alone.
Killing her natural beauty.
No comments yet.