By Grace Black

From this wreckage, I write.
Apostrophes assigning
wrongful blame and
pronouns upturned
confuse our meaning.

This is decay,
a rusted bicycle,
color of my lip-stain
and my blood spilt dreams
preparing the ground for spring.

* * *
Just another writer wearing down lead and running out of ink, one line at a time. Coffee refuels her when sleep has not been kind. Grace Black writes poetry and flash fiction and has been published or upcoming in Unbroken, Pidgeonholes, Three Line Poetry, 50 Haikus, 50-Word Stories, 101 Words, and 101 Fiction. More of her writing can be found on her blog

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