Women are left,
little blots on the table,
Do we stain what we don’t want
like an affront to the tablecloth?
Or are we a seeping of ink everywhere
spilling with no seams or stitches to hold us?
Do we become emaciated, pointy bones
with lonely sharp edges, fine and white?
No. We are empty as tipped urns
cracked by life back to clay
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