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Megan Martin

AS EACH NEW SUITOR LINED UP BEFORE HER VANITY, SHE HIi-YA!’D HIM IN THE FACe

 

 

It is true that springtime is a season of many “offerings,” but do not worry, darling.  I have not accepted the stranger’s behemoth mantelpiece (cracked), the baker’s supple tarts, rainfall on a brittle field, theories regarding chance meetings. 

 

The depressed apparitions arrive nightly: billowing in the sills, crying out for bubble baths and feathered fedoras.  In response, I have instituted the white-noise earplugs.  I have denied pecans, hands, the pleasure of. 

 

Lake?  Oxygen?  Hitchhiker?  Drunk?  Oh gracious no.

 

I promise: I shall renounce the trainwreck and rekindlings in all arenas.  I shall reject lemon oils and reject ice.  I shall reject for the rest of my life or until I cannot accept it any longer, whichever comes first.



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