as the petals fell from a blushing
blooming rose. Worn like a pair
of pantyhose. Now I’ve rips and
holes. Stretched as he fetched for

his revolving door. Waxing his
ego. Tallying the score. Feeding his
libido with a silver spoon, as if we're in
a cartoon. Bathed in this infection

he cloaks as an *******. The sickness
hasn’t left me. Still fluttering like a  
honeybee. I tell myself I'm strong. But
I'm wrong. I’m torn. Like an axe to

the tree. I’m split into three.