Rest

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Nights my face leaves a print
lipstick and rouge, or more accurately,
the wet shadow of tear peeled mask
dirtying linens--those nights
(balmy winds over an ocean
a thousand miles away,
roaring waters I could drown in
slap cold against bare skin)
are the darkness of the deep
tears, saltwater after all and I
am no more than a girl on a bed
painting a frown on her pillow.

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GREAT POST!!!

Thank you for publishing it to our community feed!
Compliments of the PHC founder @jaynie...

We have tweeted, upvoted and reblogged it for you.

❤ MWAH!!! ❤

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Bravo! Love this!

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Thanks for sharing your experience with us!
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