Not Blue, But Black

She spent childhood afternoons
at the bathroom sink, hand washing

and wringing, cutting her twelve-
year molars on hunger for certainty.

Riddled by compulsive tics, her feet encased
in depressive concrete, she survived with pills

and ravenous hope. Now, inching toward forty,
she will not partake in the scavenger hunt

for absolute truth. She no longer seeks comfort
serene as the weightless saltwater womb.

During dingy gray days when her body
is pain-dulled and her mind dead-set

on devouring itself, when joy is elusive
as the god particle, she cocoons her flesh

with clean sheets and settles for ten-hour stretches
of oblivion, death served in bite-sized pieces.



About the Poet:
M. Stone is a bookworm, birdwatcher, and stargazer who writes poetry while living in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in San Pedro River Review, SOFTBLOWCalamus Journal, and numerous other print and online journals. She can be reached at


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