Silent Treatment
The morning sun reflects over the night’s snowfall,
glaring into the motel room.
Mascara smeared eyes open to the unstoppable gloom.
The unapologetic smell of urine and sex
burn dry nostrils, forcing reality.
The night’s lust had muted the abnormalities.
Fishnet stockings on the dingy carpet
pulled on in a rush-
no longer controlled by lust like a lush.
A joint shared, a few laughs and
lies told. Dropped off at your door.
Lonely drive home for a narcissist’s whore.
Tears freezing to skin, unstoppable regret,
self-loathing, knowing that silence
will be earned in the months hence.
-By Tricia Lynn
