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The desolate room misses babe and me.
Her gloved palm of flower and fruit held mine.
His masked face frowned as my womb then empty
grew garnet and crimson, not a safe sign.
Lust erupted my parenthood unplanned.
Her kind brown eyes try to smile confidently,
calmly. I see truth behind the ocean’s sand.
I remove my hand and cry silently.
The salty sadness of numbness not pain.
At eighteen, my choice convenience blushing.
Vacuumed out clean, I try to remain sane,
hearing nothing but the cool air rushing.
Once swollen with rose and morning glory.
Hurt too fresh for touching allegory.

If you like the poem, please consider sponsoring my work at the Tupelo Press 30/30 Poetry Fundraiser at https://tupelopress.wordpress.com/3030-project/ Every little bit helps. And, thank you for sharing my writing journey with me.

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