Traces

I am eyeliner flicked
back in sultry wings
a siren’s tongue
behind my bottom lip
the neckline of my
sweater stretched out
and hanging off my shoulder.

I am the foreign spit
on your tongue
and the hands
knotted into your hair.
I am the thin sheet
tangled around you
when you wake in a stranger’s bed.

I am the one whose
face morphs with hers
till you cannot tell
if the woman in your hands
is a present whore
or a past wish,
a falling star you seized
before the night was up.

I used to wonder if you saw me
in the folds of your ruined sheets.

Now
I know.

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