The illusion of forty eight hours
whisked away before my fingers found
their way to my phone's screen as the
number dialed into my life's timeline.
After two rings, a woman spoke
on the other line. Her voice mimicking
mine so synonymously.
"Hello, who is this?" She questioned. "This is Maria,
who am I speaking to?"
I hung up.
I looked at myself in
the mirror hanging against my wall,
my features looked so different from
yesterday, as if I could not recognize myself
anymore.
I used to think my eyes looked like my
father's and my smile was the same as
my mother's, but the second I heard her
voice, all of those tiny comparisons to fit
into my family fell apart like tiny pieces
of glass.
"I'm not ready, not yet." I whispered to
me, myself, and I.
YOU ARE READING
shades of red
Poetrywhen you have too many thorns, all you can do is paint them in red, because, maybe then, they will look like petals [sequel to shades of blue]
