unapologetic, unironed skirts.
high waisted midriff baring school girl *****.
heavy eye makeup, caked creases and oily hair.

i have a feeling growing in my stomach,
i feel it kicking,
you gave it life.
with your words.
i think i'm pregnant
with a baby
called
hate.

thanks for driving me to the station.

your son wasn't a mistake.
you didn't say it,
but,
i can read tone too.

i must say, you're quite a conversationalist.

even though the car ride took longer than expected.

binge on crap tv,
occasionally.
to fill the
space-time
CONVERGENCE.

but this isn't
geography,
is it?

Crying,
deep, gutteral, gnarled crying,
ugly and cracked,
broken and chaotic,
forced up by my heart [sense of betrayal],
lodges itself in my throat.

Left so unjustly done,
stood up and abandoned,
because it was hung from a rope and left to rot.

For twenty three hours and forty five minutes.

Taunted.

And yet,
it feels

nothing.

My paper heart can feel Nothing at all.

If you tore it up,
you could consume,
my poetry.
And call it of your own
life.

**** would play in the background of my headache.
So I'm glad you don't think of death like that.