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
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.
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Copyright © 2016 Rebecca Sherratt