To hide a painful past


Drags her slippers on tar—

En route to the café.

On her return,

a loaf of bread under her armpit.

Everybody on the streets salute her,

Gossip must be her true religion,

She rhythmically murders her detractors,

Looks at the stars on the sky at night,

Caught her mugging an innocent soul,

I adore her gangster ways from a distance.

Has own personality,

Clutters fashion stores plastic bags,

Applies thick make-up to her face—

To hide a painful past,

Wraps naïve men around her index finger.




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