The whip script
Smiling
From a black back
Dark blood slicks
The handle in
The white hand
That fed her
That handed her the rags
She called her Sunday best
The hand that slipped over nipple tips
Over round brown belly
To the penultimate alter
Of creation
The whip slices through the air
Cuts into flesh
Dark blood
Slicks the handle
In the white hand
That fed her
Clothed her
Touched her
Killed her
The whip falls
To the moist green grass
Now tinted red

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