ODE TO A WICKED WOMAN

It wasn't bad enough that you were promiscuous, but you bragged about your promiscuity. With your wild and wanton words, you ruined a beautiful family and left a precious child hardly better than an orphan.

You thought it was hilarious telling your mindless friends over too many mojitos during Happy Hour that you had picked your mongrel dogs over the father of your youngest child and with further levity added that you had helped him pack and slammed the door behind him.

I surrendered my two sons to raise your two children. I rescued them from a dingy apartment and put them in a spacious home in an upscale neighborhood so each could have his and her own bedroom. I took from my own two boys to give to your two kids. You paid me back by ripping out my heart and soul and wrenching my baby from me.

Who are you screwing now since you have considered fucking more important than family? What's the number of guys to whom you have opened your flabby legs? Your fingers and your toes are useless as you try to tally the final figure.

Bedding three different guys a variety of times over a three-week period is your definition of a modern woman? It's certainly not the definition of a wife or a mother.

You will die of uterine cancer you have been drilled by so many penises. You will burn in hell for robbing a good father of his son because you have an insatiable desire for new cock in your old cunt.

And never forget the repugnance of your battered body. Gravity has devastated your figure. Your tits hang to your waist. If you were a dog, and you may qualify as a bitch, your dugs would drag along the ground.

Your stretch marks have reduced your stomach to a mass of wrinkles that not even God could eliminate with a celestial iron.

A ring of fat hangs over your pussy like an awning that offers little protection from the raining sperm and your pubics could have been plucked from the heads of natives inhabiting the darkest reaches of the Congo.

You have been quarried by so many miners with their picks and shovels that not even an elephant could ejaculate because he wouldn't feel any friction.

Like overripe papayas, the two halves of your ass hang to your knees and your varicose-veined legs resemble a road map that twists and turns in their downward route.

No amount of photoshopping can recapture the glamour of your youth. Age has turned the tide against you. You defied all the rules. There will be no golden years in your broken life.

I could pierce your heart with a sword, but, instead, I will bury my pen in your brain. My only regret is that I am a writer and not a painter.

As the latter, I wouldn't have to leave my reality to the imagination of the viewer. No amount of prose can compare to a picture's thousand words.