in the gut
with a fist full of apples
from the trunks of his eyes,
cutting me in pieces

like ma's hot pies. Burnt as the
flambe', sliding off him, like whipped
cream. All part of a sick girl's
dream. Like Swiss cheese,
you can stick your finger through

the holes in me. The floating
noodle in the soup. Lying flat
and soggy, a clucking chicken
in the coop. Sitting on the

eggs. Thought I'd crack,
or less be scrambled. I shouldn't
have gambled on the man. Should
have seen the cleaver and ran!