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Abby May 2018
they call me a nymphet
my narrow hips budding *******
my glowing skin rosebud lips
in the sun where i rest...
older women are fat and cold
with porous skin and dyed hair
they haven't their blades like gold
salient and bare
they haven't their thighs like ivory
of thin ivory are mine
i'm british and brattish
they're just fine
they call me a nymphet
with my schoolbag hanging
from my frail shoulder
decadent and delicate
please just for a while
not a nymphet
but a hurting child
Tom Salter May 2020
It was never in Mother’s intention,
to spoil us with her unaminous affection,
and just like the selfish, brattish child
we demanded for more attention,

and so, we screamed and went to war
and tore this family asunder,
sewing deep the misconception
that Mother was the real offender,

she watched in awe and horror
as we spat on her names’ honour,
committing guiltless acts of treason
against her, more natural, children -

Mother was not impressed, but
she knew we would never confess
as each and every one of us, truly believes  
“the world was built just for me”.

— The End —