PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

A girl was killed two weeks ago.

Her body was dumped in a

shallow grave beneath the big

electric towers on Ridge Avenue.

Her murderer lived down the street

from me.

Why didn't he want to murder me?

Am I supposed to feel sorry?

I don't feel anything.

Am I supposed to feel sorry for

someone who would probably

belittle me,

spit in my face and

call me a whore?

If it were me who was killed

I wouldn't ask for publicity.

I'd ask for sal-fucking-vation.