composite sketch of you and the rest of them

a hideous assortment of shoes spread out across the room
attached to legs that shook to the rhythm of your voice
which, if I closed my eyes, sounded all too familiar-
that pitch, that timbre, that tone
that goddamn slow southern drawl
that yawned out the boredom of a thousand women
eventually distilled to one.
and you strummed and you sang
a troubadour of failure
and my lashes lowered, resisting reality
and you became him
and I became the girl I once was
before I ever heard of your singer-songwriters
with their catchy triplicate names.

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