by Julianne Bond
Given that you are face down on the floor it will be harder than you thought. Run your tongue along your lip, along the split that tastes of pennies and red wine. You are rusting from the inside out. Red wine and shards of broken mirror at your feet, shards that reflect him standing over you, his arm raised. Shards reflect your eyes, one swollen, almost closed. Thousands of eyes at your feet, some swollen, almost closed, calculating all the reasons you should stay.
Julianne Bond writes poetry and prose. Published in journals such as Sport Literate and the anthology The Writers Studio at 30. She lives in NYC.
