MARY GIBSON
The Lost Woman After a shower, she still smells of unwashed uniform, Stale coffee, old blood clings to her skin Her mouth fills with acid Burning, corroding her inner being She is a screeching fishwife in the middle of the street Screaming at no one but herself Young men and women walk past laughing The old matrons look on and mutter Inside the house, the walls press in Waiting for her to implode
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