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Hard Water - Anya McMurrer

It was late January

and you had driven up to see me.

I was not nice to you,

but you bought me breakfast

at my favorite place, anyways.

The diner light was forgiving, and

the coffee was bottomless, but

you still saw them -

the smudges of bluish-purple set under my eyes,

careless thumbprints

that depression leaves

when she makes herself at home in my skin.

She gets too comfortable, and

does not bother

to clean up after herself,

so I do my best

to rid myself of her mess.

But I have missed a few spots.

You saw them, but Mom,

she stains like

hard water. Calcified tears

are not so simply wiped away.

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