FutonA Poem by Megan
Lets drink until this burning memory of what he did is gone. Erase it from my now spinning temporal lobes. My wrist are still bruised and my thighs are still gashed and sore from fingers groping my pale, delicate flesh. Who knew he would turn into this creature who would steal my virtue and cause me to lose faith in all men when he was the one who would cry when we fought. Now I want him to be lying still on the black Futon in his living room. © 2008 Megan |
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1 Review Added on February 21, 2008 Last Updated on March 30, 2008 AuthorMeganNJAboutI'm full of all kind of emotions and I like to write about then when I can, even if it comes out totally wrong. I get my inspiration from friends and family and all the crazy situations I've been in. .. more..Writing
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