And so she smiled that smile.
The one he thinks is real
Cherry red and bitten inside
A bitter stone lodged in her throat
Swallowing hard keeps the bees down
Churning like molten amber in her belly
And swarming loudly in her chest
Beneath her heart if such a thing
Gulping down his medicine
A good Sunday girl.
How long before one slips out
Spiked legs pushing through glossy flesh
And hissing angry truths into the world
And then another
Dropping hard onto the crisp white linen
Scattering bloody bile
And still they would come.
One for each word she never spoke
For each time it didn’t matter
And yes, after all, he was probably right.
She smiled that smile.
It’s nearly full in there.