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.