by Lauren Millington
A photo stitched within an old wallet.
In cracks of web, it shows my youngest face
You keen and cry to fellow men , “Collette!~”
“She looks like sweet flower in shattered vase. ”
I urged you, “Burn that relic till it’s ash!”
It stayed however, in your doltish maw.
For every sun you spit at my new mask,
but I shall not succumb to tragic flaws.
You flaunt it round, your words like bitter brine.
Notching lines into a cruel but bare board?
No, you will regret this. Repaid in kind.
A hundred pictures of you I have stored.
So I primp and preen to fellow girls, “John~”
“His looks were once so fair! Now they are gone.”