Diners pass daydreams across the table The woman with leaves in her hair sighs and sips on darkness, mascara made of crematorium ash dripping from her eyes She fears aging and reads obituaries for comfort at the end of the day Cuts out the old people and pastes them in a scrapbook Tucks it neatly away on a closet shelf For now she smiles politely, pretends she’s got a grip on life But there is no doubting the sadness, the crumbs she is left to clean up when the guests turn in for the night, left scattered on the tablecloth like false rumors. Smeared lipstick on wine glasses she’s never quite able to get out And the stains of a thousand stories forever on the carpet, tormenting her for the rest of her life
BIO: Stephanie Smith is a poet and writer from Scranton, Pennsylvania. Her work has appeared in such publications as Pif Magazine, Illumen, The Literary Hatchet, Poetry Quarterly, The Horror Zine, and Bete Noire.