Your Sunday Best

Twenty-three. Soft and supple,
scorching like a twister
in a mint green dress and bare feet.

I am a woman, and you are the crumbs
of earth that I have been force-fed
for far too long.

Stuck still in shapes of made-up words,
skipping records and pink tape haircuts.

Scampering out of the light, I am
a cockroach under your corrective shoes.

You are a safety suit filling with water;
you are a choking death
as all the stars flicker out,

the moon too dim to light the way home.

Sarah Marchant is a St. Louis poet who is unapologetically raw. Follow her work on Twitter: @apoetrybomb.

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