November 10, 2016
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She called upon me like a wrecked child,

one with eyes like burning fire. 

Torment as if I was the defiled.

An imbalanced, imperfect child. 


I'm not her cup of tea,

not her absinthe. 

Twisting my words,

and beating me down.

A manipulative breakthrough.

Skin ached, black and blue.


A mother,

a broken child. 

Getting her fix off

of my pain. 

My emotions are piled. 

An imbalanced, imperfect child.

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