Poetry and Creative Writing

Recycled Waste

The grease thickened
cooling even as it found purchase

between myself and my heated gaze.

My reflection seemed as angry as I,
but at what, she could not say.

My scalp is pouring into
the sweet decay of early morning.

“Stay,” it gurgles, and my thighs stick together
to prevent me from leaving

I can no longer run away from myself
that much, I see, is true.

How does one remove oneself
when the source of the slick

is you? ♦


C. Louise Williams


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