My Poetry

Meeting the Family

We finished the bottle of Bombay Sapphire while looking in the rearview at a St. louis skyline fading, until it soaked into the ground.

It’s not as romantic as it sounds. My re-lit cigarette burns between my fingers as I try to run over the memories I wish I could forget.

Nobody wants to believe that some people were born with malevolence in their blood.

Even when I hear the slam of a red hand in a door or see the stain myself, I justify, I play advocate and can never have enough proof.

To me it’s all duplicity and mastery. 

“Meeting the family”– by Kelley Stephens

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