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In The Motel Bathroom

By C.L. Liedekev

Every sound stops. The smell
of peach vodka, stale water,
mildew’s harvest of sheets
slips under the door. My nose
gone white fills the space past
the reflection in smudged light,
our sweat becomes the blood
of the earth. Her wrists
grip the bathroom’s disabled
counter, rolled bills spill
onto the rug as desperation
forms clouds on sunk jeans.  
We are voyeurs born
of heat and chapped lips
and the need to grind each
other back into powder.

Outside the party fires on
and everyone hears flames.

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