LA FEMME ROUGE

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LA FEMME ROUGE

  I feel so used.
Is that all I am-
a piece of meat?

I don't love you.
I attempt-
It's a lie.

You know this
and yet-

TRESPASS.

There is no knife.
Is it rape?

I bleed anyway.

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Poetry is what is lost in translation.

Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

Blythe’s Poems (3)

Title Comments
Title Comments
Roots 2
Brigid's Song 0
LA FEMME ROUGE 0