Forty-seven: Untitled

Avoiding the crowded room I drifted
past the forbidden chambers to a
place less than half mine. Mid-breath
I was exiled to the dungeon on the  27th
floor. I locked myself in, content to be
three doors deep, far from the hands that
remained clasped when I reacher for them.
I sank against the princess pink tiles,
muffled wails choking a worn-out throat,
tears on a loop, stuck in traffic jam of my
own sadness. I sat, nervous that I would
be called upon any moment, and thus forced
to dry the leaky faucets of my eyes,
to smear a smile across my face,
and, head bowed gratefully,
deliver my lines.


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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

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