Her eyes are like bruises, as though 2am punches her in the face every time they meet amid the faded glow of alarm-clock hands and the crumpled sheets of a sleepless night.

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Her eyes are like bruises, as though 2am
punches her in the face every time they meet
amid the faded glow of alarm-clock hands
and the crumpled sheets of a sleepless night.

Crossroads Poetry

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