My Daddy, ******* Him,
loved me so much
he used to pick the raisins
out of my Raisin Bran.
Every morning he'd sprinkle
the flakes onto two paper towels
so he could spread it out
dense enough
to catch any raisin scoundrels.
After sufficiently flicking
the cereal to-and-fro
he'd put it in a bowl for me,
with just enough milk
so as to make it tasteful,
and not soggy.
(Anything for his princess)

Well ******* Him again
for the second time
in these lines if I don't still
pick those little raisin turds
out of my cereal 22 years
out of the womb.

And ******* him for
biting my pretty red heart
in two giant pieces
and leaving me with
no way to sew them up
except a handful of joints
in one hand
and a bottle of prozac
in the other.

Know what though?
I was eating raisin bran
last night and I bit down
on a sweet, gummy
treat I had sworn to
despise among
all things
and I didn't *****.
I didn't gag.
I didn't do anything
but swallow it
and take another bite.

My tastebuds must be
changing.