Daughters of Hatfield
Deceitful lies like black Saturn sheets surrounding us like a dirty game pretending to be grown up, lipstick traces over nipples and white bosoms of friends, flashbacks of close encounters, encouraging, stripping, revealing, licking, kissing.
The inappropriate abortion of loveless souls, this lustful child that wonders the plains of a naked woman touching desire, Age that is reached by experience of hiding and adults that don’t care how reckless your body is.
Bi-sexual ideas of not knowing the sex game and understanding even less about intimacy, discovering the body and it’s restriction of privacy, developing parts that are not meant to be shared.
Hormones rage at the idea of lover’s behind bushes trying to be quiet, wanting, whispering, panting, hush! drunken nights lead pregnant virgins in the arms of abusive drug addicts with promises of forever, the technicality of being single hurts more than a cheating spouse, so take one more beating tonight, like territory of the boss and suburbanites with wondering mistresses.
It’s always about you, what you wanted? Like the repeated sad song of children screaming for attention, rebelling out of frustration of being ignored. This is not neglect but rather seeking favour and respect in the form of a woman or rather a homeless father that left his home because he did not want to be a father.
Starting fresh with less harmful substances, nicotine craved swine’s for something stronger. She liked it, wanted it, tried it, swallowed it, and begged for it, although I know she asked for it. It’s hard to meet the sunrise, but easy to beat the sun before it comes up.
Summer nights seems cold walking the streets for a fresh high, just so the ants can stop eating my flesh. Sweet 16 might never see 17, never understood 15, trying to be 21, looking like she 60, cheating life is never easy and the price you pay is costly but not like your prices you charge per hour.
The child wanted to be an adult not knowing what sacrifices must be made to be an adult. Gone are the butterflies, the cupcakes, the pretty dresses, the soft hair, the mothers warmth, the smiles of friends, now are the substitutes of crack bottles, dirty needles, short skirts, torn stockings, anger of a dealer and treachery of whores. Please let me come home, I want to come home. I don’t want to die in the back of this mans car, his done with me, his finished, his had enough of me, he took what he wanted violently, he said he was going to kill me, mom he is going to kill me.
beautiful
wow. excellent write. sad tale, told with precision
Amazing - great write.... Pat