By Amy Thomson

Three-twenty-two am,
memories stem from dusty corners
long forgotten,
gone rotten,
like fruit left in sixth grade lockers,
she walks her skinny legs
Porcelain bowl
full of that night’s dinner,
getting thinner,
she’s the winner
and the sinner.
Years of tears,
then high school years
of Pepsi for lunch,
tomato to munch,
stomach to crunch,
walls to punch.
“Where’s your food?” he asks.
Her mask taut,
“I forgot.”



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