pulsating and deep

dripping sweat,

and nothing but heat.

hips pointed high,

and eyes to the sky.

In a rocking motion,

thigh against thigh.

while you just lay there,

with your eyes open wide

... never knowing,

you're tearing from inside.



Until you're moving,

moving all about.

And you're bleeding,

so you shout!



And friends come running,

while the boy once full of motion -

just continues lying there.

With no concern at all,

except for himself,

and his hair.



Soon the hours start to pass,

the catheters, the doctors, the glass.

The blood flows, but the heart just stops.

Maybe from the morphine drip,

maybe from the tear,

maybe from the Mother,

whose now standing there.



The one who will stroke your filthy palm,

the one who you'll tell:

you raised a little girl, ma,

who can't choose men real well.



But if luck still exsists,

she'll hold you without a care.

And she'll help to mend the tear

that left you lying there.



Eventually you'll drift to sleep,

maybe out of weakness,

maybe after a good weep.

The suture will come out,

and the blood will cease.

But you, sweet darling,

will awake nowhere near peace.



Know you can clean up the mess, girl,

and you can hide that scar.

But the truth is, it's there,

wherever you are.



And he's not alone.

There's plenty of him.

But maybe next time sweet girl,

you won't just seek a lover,

but a friend.