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His eyes traced over her, watching her lick her popsicle

She gazed to the sticky-handed child over the riviera

And pitied her, for the burden that it is of womanhood.

 

The stained mirror was cool on her breasts

Splayed out, anaesthetised underneath him

A warmth trickled down her legs, and she wept.

 

The clock stood still

She caressed her form

Antique and rotten

Finished.

Could there ever

Be hope for those

Who replace, discarded?

 

His juices covered the glass, staining, tainting

Friction burns and bruises scaling her ribs

Eyes dried before she turned around to smile

 

The child gazed down at her dropped ice cream

A mother’s tender hand led her away

But she would remember it later.

 


 

You can check out the rest of my poetry here!

Copyright © 2016 Rebecca Sherratt

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