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The Victim

The Victim

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Should she walk away her sorrow,
or allow her sorrow walk her away?

The absence of friends to the presence of foes.

Mouth sealed like a disgusting gutter.

When open, it verbose odour of sadness.

Salivating regret, “how I wish I am not a female”

Moromoke, suffering from loneliness in thought.

Silence from ocean depth filled her heart.

Tears clearing its way through a rough path,
Wet pants, Shivering hands,
Pounding heart.

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She’s awarded a diploma in fornication.

The rod of life had stricken her badly.

Her mind yearn for death,
she’s skinned with disgrace.

Like serving herself her heart to swallow
just to stop it from pounding hatred for herself.
For what she took has pride has been taken, forcefully.

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