Shove A Blood Stained Carrot Up Your Shitty Ass

It is very easy to cut one's finger with a paring knife. Mind your mind, drifting away. The window above the kitchen sink. Big screen for old dreams. Undemented fulfillment of a campus goddess. Incarnated glamour of an elitist suburb. Every man and their son’s fantasy, that beauty next dear, "such a bitch", such jealousy. Football team captain of a husband grown into unquestionable handsome in full reign over the country club. Domestic lust in silk and lace, rose petalled way to never forsaken most expensive, enduring mattressed matrimonial bed in the neighborhood.
But a shadow stands in the projector’s way.
Football team captain of a husband grown into inconsiderate jerk is standing outside the window, uncoveted lips shaping words at Prozac bred average housewife: “Dinner’s on it’s way?”
Shove a blood stained carrot up your shitty ass.