But these mama’s boys just don’t know when to quit.

A dart filled with black liquid misses its target by an inch.

Crumpled, broken things find puddles to drink from.

A deep, abiding patience is replaced by thoughts of stabbing.

Now, the hours have turned to dust between us.

Just so we’re clear, they are owed nothing.

Some starvation is earned.

It doesn’t have to be my love or yours.

A saint out there longs to put their pieces together.

Someone wants to be depleted in the name of giving,

Their flagellation stinks of kink.

Let a nun love them.


~ by Athena on December 30, 2018.

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