Her Broken Self

By Stephanie Smith

she laid her I love you’s

out on the table

 

it’s not like her, I thought,

placing my napkin on my lap,

 

to wear her heart on her sleeve,

to spread her broken self around

for everyone to see

 

like ketchup on the meatloaf

breastmilk made her weep

 

so she cried until the cradle fell

and her lover returned home to her

in time for evening tea

___

Stephanie Smith is a poet and writer from Scranton, Pennsylvania. Her work has appeared in such publications as Pif Magazine, decomP, The Horror Zine, Everyday Poets, and Bluestem. Her first poetry chapbook, Dreams of Dali, is available from Flutter Press.

 


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