Nail Polish

Christyn Hutchens

The bar’s washroom smelled like cold corn tortillas—
A smell I wish more public restrooms stank of.
Hot tears fell—
Torrential downpour—
Like smutty dishwater through an old chinois.

Being raped feels like being dipped into a vat of nail polish.
The memory will dry, crack, and break off in chunks—
But the residue will always be there.

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