Does it make you happy,
Painting poison on lips you cannot kiss
Dangling trust in their faces and
Setting it ablaze?

Does it make you happy,
Holding the strings in your hand
Watching them stumble over no’s and sorry’s
Paste a smile over a frown because their worth is on their patience to be polite?

Does it make you happy
When you act like you own a person,
Does it get you off
When you patch wounds with humiliation like a pus-stained swab?

Does it make you happy,
Leaving your muddy footprints
on the doorstep of a home
you cannot have?

–Β “Hell hath no fury like a woman standing up.”

LL.

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