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On the coattails of a magnificent eve

Restless oblivion churns in quiet solitude

What breathless thoughts have come to nest

in the pocket of my spirit's vest, as the fringe

tickles my delicate fancies, firing off like

reckless pistols lost and shining red in the dark

A confusion brought on by a lack of fusion

with the carnival of monotony that surrounds

the flickering scenes of a movie made without

the comforts of reality; tethered to the mind

left to grasp at the coattails trailing behind

the waltzing steps of a magnificent eve


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'Hope, you don't have to use it on your wedding night.'

She handed the pistol to Hope, right after the vows, right before the reception.

'I'm just kidding, darling. Don't worry. He's a good man. You did well sweetheart. He's a good man. You'll be fine.'

Hope's paper-thin smile tried to grow as she stared at her grandmother's reflection in the mirror. The mother-of-pearl grip sparkled in her grandmother's hand, bathed by the Chapel's cheap buzzing lights.

'There's a bullet for you, just in case.'

Hope had left the gun on the table.

A week earlier, drunk off self-pity, she had taken it out of its case and walked to the kitchen, where she stuck the barrel in her mouth and proceeded to take pictures of herself to send to Ray.

In a rare instance of good fortune, her phone ran out of battery before she could indulge her sense of pithy revenge. She woke up and pried open her tear-salted eyelashes then made sure to delete an…