poetry

Another Day at the Masquerade

By Amy Thomson

The closet of masks

sparkles with gleaming teeth,

beneath empty eyes,

hollow lies

lie lurking.

Always working

the perfect angle,

trust is mangled

and coated

with sugar bloated,

empty words

that fill your ears,

crawl into your brain,

center of disdain,

dissolve.

Conversation involves

crafting your smile,

spitting saccharin lullabies

from your gleaming teeth

catch your reflection,

caught the infection,

staring back at two, hollow eyes.

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poetry

Night Walk

By Amy Thomson

Fingers laced,
embraced
by navy glitter,
nothing bitter,
city sleeps,
no horn beeps,
no siren weeps,
no children wails,
just wagging tails.
Leash pulls
our lips apart,
again we start,
dog darts.
Giggles swallowed
as we follow
an excited pup
back home.

 

 

poetry

Itchy Sweater

By Amy Thomson

Rub,

scratch.

Poor material:

chemical,

arterial.

Take it off,

this itchy sweater.

Trend setter.

Out of my skin,

onto the floor,

rotten core

exposed.

Suppose,

I buy a new set of skin,

one akin

to models

and stars?

Behind bars,

one’s self,

one’s shield,

peeled,

revealed:

Amy.