Silent Treatment
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The morning sun reflects over the night’s snowfall,
glaring into the motel room.
Mascara smeared eyes open to the unstoppable gloom.
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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
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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
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