Sharp Woman

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She did not talk like you and I. It was a soft tone, a language I only understood after she’d spoken. Big ones, small ones, blunt ones, sharp ones. Stained or stainless. She talked in daggers…

All the discards,
She had the sharp words
Edged,
to carve nerds with shards of verbs

The rusty razor blades to leave you dazed and filleted
Flesh turned inside out, displayed
Hopelessly on a page of her conquests who didn’t make the grade
The grenades of later dates, misplaced in time
Because otherwise, surely the universe was being selectively cruel.

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