Poem: “Zits and Stuff”

I like her wits, and more so her tits.
She’s got a rack that never quits.
(And just a few zits.)
She never throws fits.
When she blows you, she sits.
She swallows, not spits.
But she never admits the juiciest bits
Of her fucked self-esteem and her clit on the fritz.
(She checks the obits.)
She knows the difference between “its” and “it’s,”
But acts like she doesn’t for the attention it gets.
(She can’t do the splits because of the zits.)
She shaves her legs but never her pits.
The scars on her wrists are the trophies (and slits)
That she wears, head held high, when she dines at the Ritz.
She always submits, and her memory omits
All of his cursing and cheating and hits.
This… is what she permits.
You see, she’s in control.
(Except for the zits.)

Taken from my book, Beat: A Book of Verses.

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