Tracks

I used you.
I made you bleed, all over the green grass,
I forced you into the rusty and rotting caboose door,
Cutting you along the flat and thin metal protruding from the track below the door.

I ran over you, tire marks on you.
I hung you from a tree.
You ran from me.
I caught you with yourself.

I used you.
I made you work for me, pickin pecans in the orchard.

I non-chalantly,
Moved away from you, distanced myself from you.

I used you.

Copyright, Christopher Leet 2011

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