Sister Scorpio

 
 
 
Black as hate; drained blood white,
shrieking Fury
punishing Saint.
Your patient, erratic torture
left me shattered, bereft, blind,
drenched in torrents of pain,
unable to move
forward,
unable to exhale, breathe through shame
or engage in
polite discourse.
 
Yet you were never satisfied.
I was not your chosen sacrifice.
I was merely inconvenient,
or too convenient.
Dressed in goat suit,
queued up to be driven to slaughter,
how could I expect to be seen with
fellow feeling?
But it was the Executioner’s blade
I anticipated,
not frenzied repetitive
back stabbings, epithets,
steel-cold rage.
 
In a simpler world,
we could have been sisters.
Giggling secrets in the schoolyard,
smoking pcp in the girls’ room,
shooting up the classroom,
dying in each other’s arms.
.
.
.
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