I see her petulant mouth,
pink, pursed, and pouting,
as she lifts the heavy latch.
I wince in sharp anticipation
of the metallic clang as it falls. . .
a klaxon announcing her departure.
Her flashing eyes full of fire,
a last steely dart of rebellion
before she storms outside. . .
into the vermillion twilight,
her staccato heels echoing
down the bloodshot sidewalk.
Such a harsh,
spare, soundtrack
to accompany her exile.
Spun gold hair billows
as she burns bridges,
and ruins best laid plans.
Her leaving
will pick at the scar,
the crusty scab that would never heal.
The one that fuses the dubious union
that spawned and raised her up.
She stayed and she survived.
Until the house got too tight
and she feared she might die
- suffocate in its bitterness.
And I still see her petulant mouth
as she opened the latch
- and left.
Written for
the Sunday Whirl - wordle 42 - using all of the words.
This collection of words bought forward this story. I love how these wordles do that! :-)