Chapter Four

I write a poem on the inside cover of every sketchbook I start, this being the fourth.

This is just a small chapter in the prose that is my life

Sadly it is mostly a lie

A tear, an insignificancy

A rape  a theft  a drug.

I can’t stop, and he won’t stop. Clocks laugh, I wait it out….

A fishnet burn. A salted wound.

The red extracted from the wine�"burning alcohol remains.

What happened to that little girl

Who used to dream of ruling the world?

This….this�" Jailbait. Am I worth the bars?

It smells like smoke and tastes like pain

It rains blood and bleeds rain

A brackish marinade, I dance beneath the dying stars and slit slit slit…

I can taste equilibrium.

Monochromatic poetry in slow motion.

Every second wasted (slit)

For every c**k tasted (slit)

The razor sears for near four years.

            Ruffles, and laces, sickly sweet faces. 

I vomit sin and out lust pours

Welcome to chapter four.

(Slit�"

Author's Note

Critique is most welcome. Never have I been more proud of a poem. I usually just vent artistically, but this, to me, is art. Raw passion that I have been trying for years to craft into words. I've succeeded.

Reviews

[Monica Garcia]

I couldn't agree more that this, my dear, is art. I can't help but read it out loud several times, the sounds and rhythm are addicting and flow like water. Thank you for sharing.