Creased skin on my face
where it presses against
a hard brown brick
it's only one
I can see around it
this sole piece of stone
forcing me
away
Digress from the point
in this silence
it is so loud
as to deafen me
My ears can bleed
trickletes of scarlet liquid
down my neck
as I strain
to hear
in silence
the noise can overwhelm
it is not the only red
on my face
as the brick is smashed
against my head
by a hand
that once stroked me
in love.
S. Elizebeth Turnquist
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