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Sharp lines, blurring

Cold tiles calm
clammy skin
as blood redder
than the brightest tomato
— like red pen ink
but brighter -
leaks from her
serrated scalp.
 
(Stupid slut had it coming)
 
Puppy whimpers trail
from her mouth
as slimy grey
spills
from her
bruised body.
Spits, kicks, sneers
rain down on her.
 
(Dumb bitch led me on)
 
Fear immobilises
muscles, She
trembles. There’s
no
fight in her arms,
no
fight in her legs. All
she can do
is survive,
stay alive.
 
(Whore thinks she’s better than me)
 
When the police
and the lawyers
and the judge and the jury
sit
on their perches of righteousness,
they will ask:
 
Why didn’t she
scratch?
Why didn’t she
kick?
Why didn’t she
just
keep her legs closed?
 
They will say:
 
She should have stayed
sober.
She should have gone
home.
What did she
expect?
 
Cold tiles
on hot skin.
 
Cold blood
coagulating.
 
Salty wetness
weeping.
 
Sharp lines,
blurring.

2016

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