Are you talking about that little girl that was murdered?

fiction, poetry, relationships, Uncategorized by Lee Dunn

Leland,
she was yours
by accident of birth.
But your stunted love
sprouted to garish green jealousy.
Control was all.
Sully her
so she’s no good for anyone.
Then consort with Bob
to kill her for what she’s become.
May you char on a slowly-turned spit,
and heal each day anew,
in Hell.

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