inner art journal

in the bakery
a red-haired woman
cuts in front of me
“It is my turn”
I say loudly

breaking
long silence
my voice
intolerant and tense
wafts through the air

the smell of warm breads
the distant look
in the baker’s black eyes
he handles me
with caution

this rainy afternoon
I feel the urge
to express myself tearfully
on the couch
he hugs me tight

don’t judge me
for being aggressive
my tears ask~
together we share
a biscuit

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