A conversation
At the top of the staircase.
My shoulders feel cold.
The cigarette burns your lip.
“I think I love you”, I cry.

My feet are bleeding
From shards of glass on the floor.
Champagne dezinfects,
I think and laugh by myself.
What am I even doing?

Leering through windows,
I see you see me walking,
My sternum stitched up.
The package I made leaks red.
You’re mad it falls on your lawn.

A shawl replaces
My hair, curls spiraling down
A white backless dress.
A man with a bowler hat
Waits for me to stop crying.

…

A.R. Tivadar is a hobby writer from Romania and a graduate of the University of Oradea. She has been published in The Alien Buddha Press, miniMAG, Motus Audax Press, RIC Journal, Low Hanging Fruit and 13 other online literary magazines.
instagram: @a.r.tivadar
bluesky: @artivadar
linktree: /ARTivadar