aweary larva

behind a closed door
when the day finally ends
she becomes herself

she removes her face
like an old porcelain mask
with a hard-set smile

she unsnaps her chest
this cloying corset from ribs
which hampers breathing

she squirms on the floor
like a vulnerable slug,
writhes in agony

leaving behind her
a slippery mucoid trace
of raw poetry


© All rights reserved 2016

101 thoughts on “aweary larva

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