The Stamp, The Finality.

It was as if I were a letter,
Away! He sent me,
Mailed me to Mumbai or Darfur, or Bogata;
When I arrived, Stamped Express
(He couldn't do it fast enough)
Shredded me into mulch, packing peanuts
You, You, You,
You mail me away, marked "wrong address"
You are my home no longer-
back to the dark where i came,
to the bins of solace and
untouched breasts,
return to sender, ha.
from then to now, I am disowned, I know.