What Hurts the Most
Your gossip got me good—
shoved the knife in deep
slashed our sisterhood
turned it like a key
struck a nerve
smeared the blood
flew the words
slung the mud—
What fresh dirt your talk’s become—
enough to bury me!
You may have ruined my name
and canceled my career.
What pains me most is not to know
the meaning of good years.
for Pretty Talker - Poetry Contest
June 19, 2016
Copyright © Rita A. Simmonds | Year Posted 2016
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