shot glass
Issue # 6 January 2012
"... brevity is the soul of wit ..."
- William Shakespeare

Tainely Perez

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He kept throwing rocks at my chest
But my skin did not dent.
When I awoke the next day it was swollen and bruised,
But it was not over; he was still amused.
And everyday, was a bruise over a bruise and a swell over a swell.
And when he got bored
I thought I could heal,
But shortly I realized his lost presence turned
My life into an unpleasant snore.
Even though the rocks were painful, I missed
Him like the cream between the Oreo core.
A year and three months later there's nothing
But the slow throbbing in my chest,
The inability for it ever to pound like the noise of a desk
Falling on the floor.
There was nothing more.