Beatch has a bad mouth.
When she opens it,
Bees fly out – stinging.
When she exhales,
The air is sulfur scented.
She has a malicious attitude.
There is a tattoo on her back,
A blue butterfly,
Just above her crack.
She thinks men are scum,
Though she doesn’t have one.
People laugh at her,
Not to her face,
To her butterfly.
Deep down inside of her,
Past the form she presents,
Past the meat of the bone,
The viscera components,
Past her sagging boobs,
Situated above hairy armpits,
The orifice of nicotine stained teeth,
Behind the anemic pimples.
Yes, there in that gray matter,
Just above the cerebral cortex,
Huddle in a vein enclosed glob,
Beatch clasps her knees,
Pushing her face into her thighs,
She sobs – fearing to show herself.

Copyright: 2008, Donald Harbour

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