Willing and soft, waiting for the right blade to carve
Its marks into her fleshy heart –
She was “too good for him,” her parents said.
But “good” was lonely for a girl unwed,
In love, she thought, and torn apart,
His knife having already made its start,
Slicing her deeply from heart to her head.
For a fat girl feels pain as all do with slim hope,
And the flesh and the blood long for the sweet
Rush of kisses, whispers in the darkness, fire and heat.
He curls ‘neath her doorway, a tendril of smoke.
Memory carries her into the street,
And her “goodness” is wasted on the very first bloke…
A sonnet by Mother Hen
feature photo: Shutterstock
(Writing Prompt: SMOKE, part of poetry 101 rehab– Thanks, Andy! Feel free to jump on the poetry wagon each Monday!)
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