As her feet roar louder,
my hatred for the *****
paints itself in my eyes,
crying a lament
of nothingness;
a black, ever-tall wall,
growing bigger and closer to squeeze me
and smear my innards,
lightning fast.

The **** now arrives,
a repulsive, saggy beast;
her leprous, sun-burnt hands,
her thick, drooling fat,
her cartoony, rotten denture,
her malformed, cubical toes,
her clinging, raisin ****;
and her *****, wretched womb
from where my being
has sadly come from.

The ***** now leaves
with a thing in her hand;
it is not her costly, ridiculous, slutty clothing
nor is it her shiny, annoying, stupid fake jewelry;
it is the abortion that failed,
the inevitable omen
of teenager idiocy;
it is I whom she is holding,
her impious creation,
her trophy of defeat,
of the loss of a prosperous life,
of unwanted, fist-ridden coitus.