Happy poem for hungry people

Darling, don’t worry!
It will all be okay.
Our patriarchal,
fucked up excuse for a society
says you don’t need to feel responsible, anyway.
Dear one, please don’t cry
when you remember the way you looked me in the eyes
and swore you’d never hurt me
with a knife between my thighs.
It’s high time you let it go.
Don’t beat yourself up, precious,
one would consider the exercise both
futile and worn out, old hat.
Maybe try again with a baseball bat.
I implore you, truly,
to stay safe and well – at least until you fall
that last remaining inch to hell,
However long, or otherwise, that may take.
I loved you, oh definitely. Of course.
How could I say no.
You stopped my lips with
every fucking blow.

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