I think this is a brilliant poem, I hope I get to use it at some point in class

When I was two I laid upon my cot
and closed my eyes to dream of fairies and their dust

At four I sat upon the knee of my father
of whom I did so willingly entrust

When I was eight that man I did trust
slid his hand upon my sex

I did not cry
I did not weep
it but became my oedipus complex

He looked upon my youthful face
with such a wistful eye
that man had killed the thing he loved
and so he had to die

He did not wear his crimson coat
for blood and wine are red
and blood and wine were on his hands
when they found him dead

The poor dead man who had murdered me
lay murdered in my bed


anonymous