The pieces leftover do not belong,

in the voided space between these arms,

not a word of blame to wrongly hang upon,

any of the people already come and gone;

this endless game must produce a loser,

the friendless domain of the End User,

a headless dame and her heartless suitor,

the senseless pain left by my abuser;

a treachery of what is most volatile,

a jealousy creeping into things hostile,

a redundancy like a fucking turnstile,

a pleasantry feigned in the meanwhile;

that notion of safety,

that may as well be,

some distantly foreign entity,

no matter the decades between,

the days his evil ways,

maintained control over me,

no matter how much easier,

is becomes to fall asleep,

his oppression,

left it impression,

embedded down deep.


One thought on “Leftover.

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