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Sarah Drago

October 29, 2012

I. She

Red flowered from her thighs;
A rose river
Quenching the parched, pink lip –
She smelled like hydrangea and being
Barefoot in puddles of lilac,
Licking my ankles, sucking my skin
Saltless. Stitched in tissue and cells and
Resonating sound, I
Stopped and smiled the tucked the stray
Strands of her hair in my stockings.
“Stay,” I
Mouthed, swallowing the sight of her
Limbs and that lovesick limp of
Her laugh.
She tugged the arch of my fingers to her
Wrists and
She told me that the wounds would warm you
And wrap themselves around your
As if they were bed linens.
“Hush,” my tongue lapped against
The raw ridges of my
Yet I am alone in this
Bed, these bones
As she undresses
Inside of
Me, silent – pressing her
Chest against
The lining of my throat

Sarah Drago is an English Literature major with a fetish for red lipstick and little black dresses. She enjoys international travel and seeks to share the stories of her childhood with the world in the hope that she can evoke understanding and raw emotion. She has worked as an art critic for online journals such as The Manchac Review and continues non-fiction research for publication.

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