Dramatic

Was an insult slug

Like a mud-filled sock

At her nine-year-old self.

Who could at fifteen feel real hate,

A heart grating against the rocks of life,

The slow hand of time rippling

Across the suburban prairie like an enemy.

At twenty-five, perhaps, she is more apt

To call it passionate,

And at thirty she considers it ecstatic,

She calls it being.

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