The flaming red haired Mother, scarlet flushed fury on her face, shoulders cooked to freshly burnt and blistering, lifts a livid hand to her (fully expecting to be smacked) overcooked tender red skinned son.
Hot, he spasms; knowing no escape.
The hand lands hard and true and will leave familiar deeper shades of purple and blue,
after salty tears have dried and snot’s been wiped,
he’s given some rock to eat “and be grateful for” painting him pink for days.
A.K.Mcallister
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