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THE BUTCHER AND HIS PIGLET
crouching behind a tree
a young girl, age fifteen
stares into
the painted nightmares of the sky
pants split at the waist,
shirt a mono-colored puzzle
missing many pieces
blood infected her shaking thigh
face bruised like a rotted apple
trembling fingers caress it
mind a bee, stinging hard
flashes of
his big white hands, stubby fingers
tearing her apart
the smell of vodka and old natty ice
penetrating her nostrils
screaming as
veins pop out of his bulging arms
that throw her into muddy grass
kicking as
he removes his letter jacket and
unbuttons his abercrombie pants
screeching as
his muddy fingers
rip off her clothing
and cover her mouth
fighting like a piglet not ready to die
but as the butcher keeps cutting,
the only safety net
became stinging silence
his perversions burned a hole into her
"Erin, Erin?" from the void, her best friend emerged.
she gradually stood
head low
eyes dark and red
just a breathing skeleton
left to carry on
"What happened to you?" her voice closer now.
once again,
that piercing silence
"Um nothing, just a little fight," she lied.
- Julia Monturo |
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