In My Pink High Heels

She cut her hair, for you.
See what you made her do.

Her hair grew long
her crowning glory
little by little
you cracked her, with my story.

Red. Is my story.

She started out, real.
No mascara, no vials.
She came with a voice.
No surrender. Pro- choice.

You with your stories of abuse,
and your penis untethered.
Your whipped out your
sad stories and became bitter.
Why did I leave you with her?

Instead I became bitter.

She was the perfect candidate.
Real enough to date.
Without the wrath of my hate.
Real enough to date.

But now she's locked in a room
no table for a fool.

She eats, she sleeps, she fucks you.
No family, just your dyfunctionality.
This is what you do.

You take our love, our ability to dance with the moon.
Our depravity, our sincerity, our individiality.
And in its place.
Doom.

A never-ending wetness
between our thighs.
Never a witness
to your lies.
I can't believe you did this.
Twice.

Your stories of dreams,
are contained within your bedposts.
They never leave your sorry ass home.

You fall in love with what you can't reach.
And then you cut it down with your speech.
Speeches of self righteous shmuckery
You think I gave a fuck, when you were fucking me?

So she stays,
She watches TV.
TV on a PC
Not an LED.

She had a home,
A family.
A father
you took away from me.
A mother who could always see
Tears, they came for free.

I stayed away on weekends,
I stayed away nights.
She does not have the common sense
to stand for what is right.
To force the world to your doorstep.
To stop your fucking family
from destroying your mentality
from thinking rationally
they get off on a technicality.
Its fucking sentimentality.

There is no room for that here.

Dilumi,
I don't give a fuck if you die.
If your hash-tag Greenpeace fuckery is a lie.
I don't give a shit if your happy
if he makes you happy
Even when he gets snappy.

And punches a wall.

No, I don't give a shit.
Take the fucking hint.
And pick up what's left of your dignity.
You can't get back your virginity
He has nothing to give
but a weekly high.

He has no dreams for tomorrow.
He has no life, just tales of sorrow.
You don't demand him to
follow you, in to the light.

Enough Dear Girl.
Enough of the lies
you tell yourself
it won't be alright.

He did this.
Twice.

posted by pINKhIGHhEELS @ 12:59 AM