Those commenting are also welcome to remain anonymous if they wish.
Incendiary comments will be removed
If you would like your piece thrown to the wolves send it to email@example.com with "Workshop the hell out of this poem" as the subject line.
Too much sugar on a Friday.
too much guilt on a Sunday.
Need me some veggies
and time to clean my dirt road soul
who walks alone. Time to party
with the road kill dead rot sadness
shouting in my head.
I remember the slow pull
of your sticky lip
when I drove away.
No more pills snuck into my cake
All pills out, with frosting on them
All to see and take without me
Around a table they pass them out
And drink a cup of tea with a spoonful
My pink cheeks will lower into a cool bath
with my eyes closed
in a satin Victorian squeezed dress,
mermaid hair, soft water.
Death will come in a breath of wind
A knife lay on the side tub
just in case.
Stack the days on top of what isn’t said
like weights from a workout machine
with blue edged bubbles of evil thoughts:
Die you slut, die you whore, die you cunt.
I’m so grateful time continues
Maybe she will forget.
I’m so grateful
Maybe she was drunk.
I’m so grateful time continues.
Maybe she won’t see.
She did see. Someone told me.