Peach Pits


This poem isn't about the pen lines of hollowed peaches,
About your dark hand clouding my skin,
About the tar your face pushed into my eyes,
About your rotted onion smile,
About you burnt on the edges of my pages
Splattered with insults and blood,
About your hand on my stomach,
In my lap,
About the way you stole my name
When you raped the girl out of me.
This isn't about you.

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