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Blindsided and left
outside an open door
my shoulders bent
from the rotted exchange,
yes, I killed you
but you’re not in the frame
so really,
does it matter?

I am a broken girl
staring at her muted reflection
on the dark hardwood floors,
backlight fading out my legs,
looking no farther
than where she will walk next.

No need to see the stench
of your rotting corpse,
his either.
My kitchen stove
doesn’t know you’re cold,
my sink never felt
anything for you
but my refrigerator
would like to spit in your eye.

I house a million pictures frames
that will gradually dismember you
as the carefully cleaned
glass shrinks
and the larger pieces
are needed
to reflect surreal smiles
and classic nudes at play.
It’s a misunderstood
innocence really,
a teasing fawn
with expectations
of being gutted
in someone’s garage.
The door opens
the knife sinks in
and I have someone else
to step over before
I can make my dinner.

© Pamela Larson 2013


There’s something brutal and honest about this piece by Pamela Larson. Speaking of pent-up anger, frustration and domestic strife (certainly not bliss), this is a poem which tells the tale of the downtrodden, the unsatisfied, unfulfilled and resentful. Employing dark, murderous, almost sociopathic imagery throughout, Pamela captures that feeling of resentment and anger that countless people in unhappy relationships or family situations (whether faced with physical or mental abuse, or just plain indifference and a fizzing out of love that once was). A powerful, dark piece with no small amount of cynical dark humour, this is a more than worthy addition to our archives.

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