I am a rose-tinted vase,
glass hips,
swiveling on the edge of the counter –
dangerously close to teetering over.
My lips are heavy headed blooms,
wilting and breaking at the stems.
I am a cascade of confusion –
baby’s breath fluttering like dust
in the ceiling fan’s breeze.

I’m pretty sure you forgot to water me.

You –
you’ve got one heavy finger
wrapped around the neck,
a safety harness to keep me
from falling and splintering across the tile.

I can hear your pulse through your finger.
I follow it –
a yellow brick road
and I’m seeking the wizard here.
I close my eyes and pull back the curtain,
move my hips,
glass vase,
tilt a whirl on the countertop.
I just want a peek at the new you.

I’m pretty sure your face is unrecognizable now.

You’re all severe edges
and sharp cheekbones.
You are stark and solid.
You are steel bars and strangle smoke.
are stranger.

© Laura A. Lord, 2020

Thank you to MindLoveMisery for their prompt.


8 thoughts on “Stranger

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