I was watching
the day you became a poppy field on fire.
I’m love-marked, impenetrable
past the rueful mouth of shallow waters.

Monkish silence doesn’t fit you,
(Not my blue-eyed mirror
who makes me ache
from missing him)
its depths will you leave you
heavy and wrapped in plastic.
I carry my razor wire hope
because I’m too stubborn to believe
even when laid to rest at your body of proof.

No hard feelings, you say
But I don’t understand why
we pawned our dream house to passing strangers.

Vanessa Willoughby is a writer and editor. Her bylines include but are not limited to: The Toast, The Hairpin, Hazlitt, Vice, Bitch, and Red Bull Music Academy.


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