Stephanie M. Wytovich

Under Take Her

He painted my cheeks with rouge,
dabbed a nude shade of pink on my lips
I didn’t like the way I looked,
so fake, doll-like, a mere reflection of my former self
but he took me to his room
sat me in his reading chair, propped up,
my glasses on, my hair freshly curled,
formaldehyde running through my veins
I don’t remember how I got here,
I just remember rain and sleet and the hum of my car
but now he’s underneath me, inside me, next to me
a taking of body, of flesh
my voice silenced, my fists unclenched,
there’s no fighting back once you’re dead.

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