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Raw MAG
RawHer lips, a jelly doughnut crimson bitten raw with anxiety, kept taut.Bitten globes of flesh implode from the bloody undercurrent.Sweat trickled, aged, crusted on the chin - a dull moon crescent.A thick pink glaze enveloped her; She cried a spritz of Windex.Her aluminum frames sizzled the forehead - smoked, charred corium.Block-lettered words rammed into her face like caffeinated hammers.Glass shattered into the clank of glistening rubies.She crumpled up the letter with her round, clay-molding fingers.by Andrea Pantor, Rego Park, NY
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