| fourteen when I dream |
| I don't want to be like Sylvia Plath she was too much, too much rolled in an egg |
| rolled in a grave white on my leg I sit in a bar fleshed with idiot passions |
| people who say hello they mean it but then I have no impotent husband just barren moons. peek yellow faces when I killed my only child (who was a boy, yes) pale |
| drained of our blood burst the egg broken he would have conquered the kittens |
| cept they were screaming at the window I put my fist through. I manage it every week. |
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