Unsaid
No perfume, just the
musk of a day
spent writing at the
computer, spruced
with the fresh scent of
soap clinging
to her arms and
armpits. No makeup.
Shadows falling on her
face define her eyes,
her lips, her
cheekbones, the hollows
and roadways left when
her youth departed,
the topography of
wisdom, of lessons learned
and freedoms won,
little by little.
Her hair falls free,
unbrushed, curled
and spiralled from
drying naturally.
No bra, no girdle. Her
breasts hang naturally,
pulling her shoulders
taut and her belly
always too big and now
too full of fear
to do more than reflect
the gaze
of the lascivious. She
doesn't care.
The lines around her
mouth tighten.
She could break a man's
arm with one movement,
shatter his floating
ribs with a punch
break his neck with a
two-step shuffle.
She says nothing, but
the casual insult hurled her way
still makes her flinch.
She smiles anyway.
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