I stared
harboring
all

soft slopes from a distance,
harsh gray eyeliner smudged from the
sweat of
trying too hard,
partially parted lips,
glimpse of teeth that grind her dead to sleep,
one dangling finger that pointed to her skin
to remind you how she feels at night
(soft-shelled murder)
and those full moon eyes.

Watching.

“the photograph”

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