you lay there,
adorned on the couch,
your deathbed.
mine is made of straw.
i am a pyre
and you burn me alive,
with the screams
that resound like prayers
from the pure of heart.
i am not pure.
i am tainted. and you
won't let me forget.

there are primitive forms
of language, my dear, and
you've mastered every one.
you yell, "you fucking dickhead"
as if that's supposed to draw blood.
i have an IV.
there is a constant supply
of insults and inconsideration's
that i am king of.

and you worship me for it.

so grow up, and
stop sowing seeds.
i've lent myself
to hating you only now,
only as the clock yelps in my mind.
it chars.
i've fallen upon the ashes.

i was set on fire
a long time ago and
you were left
holding the match.

12/14/2003

Author's Note: fuck you.

Posted on 12/15/2003
Copyright © 2024 Rachelle Howe