someone carves
a heart into your front door
with a hatchet.
scratches out with a fork
I love you, not,
into the hood of your car.
there are so
many suspects
that you don't know where
to start.
you hide under
your bed.
there is still
another ten hours
left in the day.
not a flower bought,
a card sent,
not one solitary
piece of chocolate
delivered.
death awaits.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment