The NY Literary Magazine

A Distinguished Selection of the Finest Modern Literature

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alone

My December by Katie Lynn

My moving hand writes on and on,
No matter what I say,
I cannot bring him to erase,
That cold December day.

The day was sad and wearisome,
It chilled me to my core,
I’d known that something would go wrong,
Though I could not be sure.

I’d felt so tired and lonely, still,
My heart had ached for him,
Beneath the Christmas trim.

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I am by Tina Cox

I am the woman that husbands don’t like
The woman that wife’s will never invite
The one with the mouth, opinions, and brains
Who’ll never be asked round to their house again

The cause of divorce one way or another
Who’s always accused of being a lover
Causing a rift at parties or work

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