Seven letters, each one more tragic than the last.
I'd drag you out by your hair so we could build a sandcastle
Toss you down the front porch stairs
And out on to the mix of dirt and broken glass.
Is that blood on your mouth, or new lip-stain?
You bend at the imagined "compliment", at my merest glance,
Yet with it I see them in you. Tumours like ripe rosy apples,
Connected by short, thick, thorny, winding vines,
Twisted around your muscles, your cells, your bones, your past.
I'm sickened at my disease, my venom inside you,
Plain spite, such disregard for your heart and soul
And still you pine, you crawl, you beg, so eager to please,
Dirtied knees and sullied cheeks, dried tears/mud/other on your skin,
We blindly dig deeper in this ridiculous hole.