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Jan 2020
It is me
that is destined to
be spilled across
the muddy ground.
It can be
no one elseโ€™s pelt
that warms your foyer.

Did you hunt me yourself?
Or did you find me
as I left myself
take me in
and dub me your ****?
Tell yourself it counts,
an accidental shot.

Stretch your toes
on my back
as you sip your morning coffee.
Beat me in the garden
in the spring air.
Choke on the filth
Iโ€™ve collected.
Delia Grace
Written by
Delia Grace  19/F/Maine
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