Ode to the Hated Victim
Steal my rose
As I lay by the side of a screaming road.
A storm of clothes and smeared make-up,
Time to wake up.
I’m an empty bottle,
Drained and discarded,
A shattered pristine.
The sting of tongue to lips,
That taste of hate and tainted drink.
This body’s bent
To probably break,
Beneath a shade of brand new grey.
This day
Conspires to spin,
I am the hated victim.
Stained in shame, I crawl by feet
A child of disease,
The bearer of blame and hollow defeat.
I’ve been painted,
The colours of sin
In merciless stroke,
The scrape of lipstick, offset by bruise,
Complimented by red,
I’m yesterday’s news.
I’m a series of holes,
Each one a salute
To the heart of a fool.
And each one
A letter reading;
‘To whom it may concern,
I died last night,
And you’ll never know.’
