Mist

I feel emptied
like a perfume bottle
that’s gone and spit its
last lavender-scented breath.
After years and years
of puffing away,
attempting to mask
the stink of the world,
my last cloud of sugary mist
clings to the air,
desperate to clean it.
My words are bleach
seeking to purify –
filter and refine and sanitize –
succeeding only in yielding a stench
sickly sweet and somehow
worse than before.

Incapable of killing bacteria,
I float with it.

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23 thoughts on “Mist

      1. Thank you Alice. I keep looking at so many things that are going on in the world and what my daughter will have to deal with as she grows and I cannot tell you how it hurts and yes, I wonder just how much these, our words, matter. How could we not wonder. How can we not hurt.

Thoughts? I love those.

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