Is It Poetry (1958 - / Bus-Boys And Poets, Washington D.C.)
My Very, Very First..'Emo'..Serial Killer
The mirror and I am sadly;
has long since told me all it knew.
The weeping between two truths.
How long my parents knew,
is again another story.
and how my feelings now, are for you.
I am not just a simple cut above the rest.
Nor some fancy hunter of the head, brought to you
in conjunction with the help of N.P.R. or P.B.S.
I am able now to transfer all of my parents rage
into long deep strokes to some one else.
Thinking back to that very first red day, I bathed.
After I found out, they were the second to know.
Males are so much easier.
Closing their eyes, what could they be thinking.
Like a roller coaster goes up and down
a few good times and then right before.
So quick now and efficient am I.
Snip and cut and the skin pulls off.
Bags of fatty yellow marbles, I now collect.
Heavier and heavier does the bag now grow.
Subconsciously how each female and those groans,
lost now forever deep to sweet, each bloody sleep.
Tail bone to bottom button.
Episiotomies become easier and easier and as with
practice even the toughest sails are rent.
Smiles how they grow and grow.
Ambiguous genitalia, I should have been told.
How one hand holds the bag and all thats between
while the other turns a long white skeleton key.
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