Futon

 

 

Lets drink

until this burning

memory of what he did

is gone.

Erase it from my now

spinning temporal lobes.

My wrist are still bruised

and my thighs are still

gashed and sore from

fingers groping

my pale, delicate flesh.

Who knew

he would turn into

this creature

who would steal my

virtue and cause me

to lose faith in all men

when he was the one

who would cry

when we fought.

Now I want him to be

lying still on the black

Futon in his living room.

 

 

 

Reviews

[THE [ME]GEAN]

I loved it. In fact, it made me cry. Personal reasons, but the poem got to me. Keep it up.