Dave Hughes: Fisherman

Sometimes, they weren’t stupid girls,
Damaged goods or dented cans.
Sometimes, they were lovely creatures.
Gentle and emotional,
Young delights.
That lit up whatever space they occupied.
I would watch them, from beneath heavy lids.
I was beautiful then too,
skin as smooth as theirs.
Because I didn’t dance,
or perform feats of strength,
I would weave a net of lies,
my words were my line,
and my eyes would set them on the hook.
Then,
I would gut them,
guzzle them,
what they were, would run down my chin,
my callous fingers would claw them.
And when I’d had my fill,
would toss them aside like empty beer cans,
disgusted.
Because I couldn’t stand,
the look in their eyes.
Because I could stand,
no longer seeing them as prey.
Because I hated them,
for not seeing through me.

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