pretty, savage little thing

blood on the counter
of long-held dreams;

butchered like pieces of sirloin.

now I’m not the sharpest point in
the drawer,
meek middle
class of the rank and file
working poor, but I’ve performed a
chore or two in
service of
minimum wage,

like wondering how to still
win that girl over

(fuck her, she’s overkill as ever was).

beige hair in a bun mistakenly assembled at
3 am,
between hours of us
versus them
and outright self-mutiny driving a
Mercedes Benz into
brick walls,

only for her to nearly die
choking on
cherry Halls
waiting for someone who
to think to call.

someone like me,
had I ever planned to
give her a ring,
seven digits that
scream she’s suicide,

a pretty,
savage little thing;

keeping knives in bedside stands,
a political stance on fire
and equal hard-on for
emotional arson in a

savage little calamity;
trying to part amicably
with her
inner psycho.

Try as I might though, it wouldn’t be a stretch
to fall for.

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