sweaty and silent
she walks into the room
her hands swollen and wet
around her fountain pen, her blood
racing
against them, in the brain room
and their eyes
slight in their glance
wait for her to speak
she is crushed
by the weight of her pause
when they ask her about purple
beads and mardi gras
all
she can see
are shiny, gentle women
in masks
her
self
defined.
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