'Such a shame,
I feel so sad.'
Her last words as punctured
gushes of breath creep away
for the last time.

Sad.

She presumes to feel that way,
to understand that word?

Sorrow.

Scaling crooked stairs time
and time again
to answer some small whim.
Wiping shit-caked legs
twice daily.
Staring into an alien face
that resents you
with a passion, yet can't
(can't or won't?)
remember your name.

I'd fight at school,
later on at university and
deep into life.
Fight as if my life depended on it.
Fight to hurt
in any way I could.
Fighting to feel special.
Fighting because if he fights back
it means he cares.

Sometimes.

Other times I came off worse.
I learned to cover the bruises,
'Maybe she was born with it.
Maybe it's Maybelline.'

I blame her for that.

She was repulsive near the end,
flesh sagging and billowing
in any small breeze.
Skin stained nicotine yellow and cratered;
the aftermath of alien invasion.
Still I fought.
One final time.
For her.
Still she gave me nothing
but grunts and moans
and guilt.
Always guilt, creeping
through my head,
a stranger in broad daylight,
a habit I cannot break.

I too am repulsive now,
made in her image.
Folds of flesh stuffed with grease,
slick and hateful,
a pregnant bulge of greed.
I am stretched thinly,
wrapped around lumps of lard.
Obscene orange-peel thighs
wobble through my days.

No surprises there,
she taught me well.