Fuck her!


Fuck her,

I say, for leaving 

cold, leaving me

knotted and shivering,

with pain in the dark.


Too young, they say,

to take it all away.


I cannot understand.

I cannot forgive.


Death is not an answer,

only a question on

everyone’s lips.


That’s your Trousseau,

that’s what’s left:

the question, 

the question,

that none can ask.