More bite than bark More cut than crescent mark Your arm — her fangs fixed Leaving strawberries betwixt Clenched fists and flesh beaten-stark
White-hot and gashing My feral child, yours for the lashing If you can make it through the swing Of her baseball bat swipe-right-strike-sting The perfect ripeness for slashing
No thoughts, head empty Nothing you say will reach modus vivendi Lips stained with your red Makes the school gym your final deathbed As she grossly guffaws in cackling cacophony.
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