Farista Sairuv

Brown-Haired Boy

It’s me.

You said you wished your father was dead

Your brown hair a mess

All your many fingers thrumming the wall


Like an ant crawling

Or a deer running

I'll find your father and kill him baby

I'll rip his heart out

I'll make him eat it piece by piece

Without mercy

He doesn't deserve it

Not after the things

He did to you my sweet one true love

© Poetry.com