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Brianna Simmons

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There is nothing like the muted quiet of a glass smile

hidden behind a sealed wall. Her casket, snug within marble,

is a thick presence. A panther in waiting.

Cruel malice locked away;

she is a caged animal.


Slumbering heavily.

She died in her sleep.

Snow falls outside, cold seeps in through cracks.

Her image stamped on the inside of eyelids. She waits.

Until nightfall, to attack.

Mother of pearl eyes, eyelids closed.

Mouth open. Rows of pews sparse.

Cut down the matriarch.

Son: Who cut down all the trees?

Wrong question.

Son: Who broke down the marble?

Cracks enlarge over time.

Roots grow out. Hair does not grow out after death,

old wives tale, young maid gossip.

There is nothing like the muted quiet of a crypt,

where speech deadens, transforms, flatlines.

Glass shards clot the inside of her mouth, blackened.

Dust, flesh cannot touch her now.

Dullened marble.

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