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The drag, the crawl, his fingers, punishing. 


In his head, he has the podium. He’s king, he’s righteous, and fair. 

In his head, he's retribution, his symphony of death, a dare. 

In his head, he's forgotten, or misshapen the words that he bled. 


She’s just the white bitch downstairs. 


In his head, he’s the teacher, the knower, the leader.

The one with the story to share. 

In his head, he’s taller, he’s stronger, and, leaner,

And she’s the one with the bed.  


In his head it’s different, it just never happened. At least, not the way that she said.


She’s just the white bitch downstairs.


In his head, he wasn’t drunk, and he knows what he said. 

He didn’t chase her up the steps, screaming, “Aww, are you scared?”

He didn’t spit, he didn’t fight, he said what should have been said.


In his head


She just the white bitch downstairs.

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