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Blood and Milk

by Aaron Blair

The last time I saw her,
she was wearing a pink
dress, the color of blood
mixed with milk, a Bathory
shake, an invitation to drink.

She was playing hopscotch
in hell, the place where
I'd sent her, the go-away
decree that comes with
adolescence, for as my
body grew, my heart got
smaller, until there was
no room for her in it.

Sometimes, I'd visit her,
and she, ever polite,
would offer me tea from
a flowered, plastic cup,
inquire about a new scar.

She would never grow up,
I had seen to that, but
she was closer to it than I.
All the fires in the kilns
of hell had hardened her.

Made of stone and girl,
she'd listen to my stories
of life after childhood,
my raped insides, cold and
lonely without her there.

No pity from her, then,
she'd never stop playing
her games. She'd never
forgive me until it was
my time to join her there.
On hell's playground, I
would be a child again,
and she'd be my bestfriend.

02/17/2004

Author's Note: I wrote this for the writing.com slam, the prompt being write a poem staring with "the last time I saw him/her." I actually entered this one, after agonizing over which one I should enter, and it won the round. Go me. It's about my metaphorical childhood self, or something lame like that.

Posted on 02/20/2004
Copyright © 2024 Aaron Blair

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Genevieve Sturrock on 04/17/07 at 12:46 AM

Go you, in deed, young lady. Brilliantly composed.

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