There isn’t much
left to munch now.
She cleaned up the
last morsels
of his boyhood,
onto a fresh tissue,
laced it with her breath,
sprayed it with gasoline,
and burnt it in hell.
He has a job now,
they call him a man,
he drives a car;
I call him an inmate.
1 comment:
Brutal and straight from the heart! Nice poem. ~ Sanchita
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