She Forgot To Salt The Eggs Again

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Where the master sits catapulting profanity and food bits at her, there is a trail of dust kissed toast, yolk bleeding splotched eggs and a thousand bits of crippled ceramic, patterning towards her. Abstract art of coffee spots all over the floor. Another day sacrificed to master’s disappointment. And where this trail ends, she stands in a corner, meek, petrified and apologetic.

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Q. Maram Zoaria

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