None of this feels right
in the aftermath of a
heated summer
feeling like an unhealed
wound
a bruise too deep to
massage
yet not so near the surface
as to show to the public
while she glows still
in the afterglow of
the season
soft cheeks, tender
tissue
sundresses converted
to something thick
to protect her from the expected chill
autumn must bring
this feast she's still feasts upon
even when she dares
not dwell
too much on its contents
the bowls filled with
nourishment
she rarely enjoys
the haunted memories
the bitter aftertaste
the reversal she and imbibes
in order to keep
the outward perception whole
she assuming men like
me admire her
merely for the way she looks
when there is so much more to admire
she failing to see
when she sees herself in the mirror
she is the feast men like me feast on
and then later starve over when denied
she floats in a limbo of self-doubt
and none of it feels right
even when she should
still be basking in its Glory
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