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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: August 16, 2016

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Submitted: August 16, 2016



It didn't seem
the case, at least
with him and her,

and that darn way
he had of making out
it did, and she

knew it wasn't
going to work,
he was just having

her along on his pretence,
and why should she
pretend any longer?

She brushes her hair,
sod him, she muses,
and drags the brush

through her long hair,
just like mother
used to do when

she was a young girl,
and her mother was in
a temper about something,

and it would be
her hair and she
who had to suffer for it,

and why should she?
She sighs,
the face she looks at

is hers, but she looks
like her mother used to look
when younger, that look,

that unsmiling face,
those eyes,
my gosh

they're hers,
but now mine,
and sod Jack,

he can go suck eggs
or something,
probably that fat

bitch he's seeing,
and I know, by God,
I know that look

he has, that guilty look,
in his eyes,
blue eyes,

big blue eyes,
greedy eyes
that could suck lemons,

or tits or me,
and she brushes
her hair to a shine,

and eyes sparkle
like stars,
like Mother's did

when she was happy,
which was rare,
and she's see it now

and then
there far way

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