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Another poem.

Darts

He fired darts at her with a practised hand.
Invisible, fast and deadly.
She never screamed but the pain was sharp and deep,
The same every time,
And he knew they hurt.
To remove a dart was to bleed to death,
So they remained,
A symbol of his power and her need
(or was it the other wary around?).
And as she sank her fingers into the wounds
And they pierced her skin daily anew,
She felt the mark of each individually.
It was good to feel something.

Vicki Watson © 2015

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