Gemotions

The tiny, handwritten poems, scrawled on napkins and tucked into the pockets of old jackets, were now framed, illuminated by gallery spotlights. Her words, her vulnerabilities, were on display. She felt as though she'd accidentally walked on stage naked.

A woman in a red dress approached, holding a glass of wine. "Oh, darling," she said, her voice dripping with affected sophistication, "the rawness is simply… *delicious*." The poet stumbled backward, knocking into a pedestal. A sculpture, a haphazard arrangement of mismatched buttons, wobbled precariously.

She muttered an apology and fled toward the exit, the echoes of the woman's words ringing in her ears, her cheeks blazing.