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So much repetition. You think I’m crass
what I do to your ass, each time I come

over. “That’s frowned on?” If I can’t trespass
why show up? You’ve been wearing my cum,

like cheap mascara, all day. — Now I frown:
“Not foul enough?” If your child could see you

right now, would she die of shame? Your nightgown
has. Each time puddles form and that funk-zoo

fuck-beast spice fills the room. How to explain
away this bruise? Those nail marks? That hickey?

Here I am, once more, knocking on your door,
“to fuck your shit up.” To spoil you with pain,

that drug of unnatural potency,
always in bad taste. Evermore hardcore.