Rust | Warsan Shire

I give myself five days to forget you.
On the first day I rust.
On the second I wilt.
On the third day I sit with friends but I think about your tongue.
I clean my room on the fourth day. I clean my body on the fourth day.
I try to replace your scent on the fourth day.
The fifth day, I adorn myself like the mouth of an inmate.
A wedding singer dressed in borrowed gold.
The midas of cheap metal.
Tinsel in the middle of summer.
Crevice glitter, two days after the party.
I glow the way unwanted things do,
a neon sign that reads:
Come, I still taste like someone else’s mouth.

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