The whorest whore who ever whored—they’d seen her first right out the door—they laughed in jest about her fall and had no shits to give at all. She’d ruin much upon the hope of what their lies had come to stoke. A future shown would be the first of many tidings of her hearse. The way she’d died inside again—over around and through the pin—she’d stitched a sweater of herself—that girl had died in poorest health. The woman here would hate them most. She’d burn it down to make some toast. They started this and left her bare in very deepest of despair. She’d heal with all who sought it plain but one would have to bring their game. They owed her more than any one—they could have saved her with a phone. She’d tried and tried and tried some more to not believe the hate in store. She’d think it wild to be so mean when all she’d want was to be clean. The woman here was now become—truth and wrath all-in-one—she wouldn’t hold a liars gaze and one was deepest in the maze. If they wished to do their part and help this woman’s aching heart—it’d take far more than most—they’d need bring a bowl to roast.
