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Jan 2019
you were a false dawn to my true
dusk, there is a graveyard in my
head, I built it for all the sorrow
you brought in, for the remnants
that you left, for the trauma you
gifted, in one of the books that
you got me, there takes place a
scene where the boy in a fit of
rage decides to **** someone who
hurt him, exactly what I wish to
do every time I imagine your
hand between her legs in cheap
hotel rooms. Along with despair,
I wait for you to die in the most
vicious manner and do what
Bukowski did to his dead lover’s
grave, he poured whiskey all over
it, I am quite sure your thirsty and
abhorrent corpse would miss the
toxicity, I wonder if your mother is
proud of the pathological liar that
came out of her womb, I wonder if
you will feel the torment of insects
eating away at your skin, I wonder
if that will balance out all the cuts
and bruises, I wonder.
Simra Sadaf
Written by
Simra Sadaf  22/F/India
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