poetry

Prelude to the Divorce.

white framed glass window

She’s tired of his stupid mouth
raging at her prickled skin-
white hot hate
levels the fool,
black pit bane
expands within.

She forgot the time
she said she would
count to ten and give a shit;
hack off her nose
and spit in his face,
burn down their vows
and call it a win.

Cast off the words
that cement the pain,
finally, finally,
she’ll blossom in rage.

© Nancy Botta, 2018

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