“I wouldn’t piss on one if he was on fire.”
She hissed with such venom on each syllable.
That hate was imbedded deep; Men, what was the issue?
Those women married them, bore children to them, birthed them, raised them…
Copulators and mothers of abusive bastards.
Of course, it was her fault. It always was, that doomed double XX.
Such hate being passed through generations.
The kind of hate that rose your heart rate, made your bones grind, made you sweat.
Venomous and bitter more than mere words; the flames licked the air in forked tongue.
Man’s kiss; woman’s curse.
(C) Natasha Sinclair, all rights reserved