One for the sorrow –

I asked for it, you tell me.

Two for the joy –

by dressing up to the nines,

in high heels and hemlines

laughing  over

cocktails and old boyfriends.

 

We danced and gyrated and

apparently inflamed you while having

one more for the road.

 

So, I can see that you think I

asked for it:

for you to follow me into the

inky dark cobbled streets splashed with neon.

 

 

I cried in terror

while my dress was ripped open

It didn’t take much for the flimsy material

to give way. for my legs to be forced apart.

It takes two to tango the three minute waltz

you said.

 

 

Whore –

as you gyrated on top of me while

gripping my wrists

so I couldn’t scratch or slash your face.

My back clattered against the ground

changing colour with every thump.

 

And I

and I couldn’t

breathe,

couldn’t breathe as you…

couldn’t breathe as you pinned me down battering in to me,

couldn’t scream having lost my tongue to terror

as you whispered whore over and over again

like some endearment between strangers.

 

 

 

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