I will get straight
to the point, shoving
past year after year
after year, count them
dear, sick puppy
torn from the pack
blood smeared
you culled me from
the herd and made me
your stuffed meal
your worse than zeal
your mascot

When I was twelve years old
you bent me into a comma

When I was twelve and
one quarter you bent me
into a fist, a fetal position
you could not resist

The love of a child
when I was twelve
and a half I fought
back but lucky you
no mother love was
listening


The anatomy of a child

You *******

Who's the hunter now?

Not you, nearly seventy
years old, ***** hippie
with one dry pointed
finger (you know
which one)

To be

To be continued
when I'm done