Twenty-Seven: Fuck Words

I can’t talk.
My words are so swollen, sacs of pus,
waiting to burst. They want to come
all over you, satisfying an itch
they never had the finger to scratch.
My words will spill over you, cheap
as milk, and you will love it. Limp
as a doll, my words will fling
you into a corner to play
fetch with your own hands.

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Published by

Alexia

I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

One thought on “Twenty-Seven: Fuck Words”

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