Poetry's AIDS

By M. Demetrice

Tasha Owino and Marcus Poetry appear to be the perfect couple but unfortunately, unbeknownst to Marcus, Tasha is torn between her fiancé who treats her as a delicate flower and a man who ravishes her body with ferocious passion. With each guiltless moment, her lover gives her something that is nonrefundable. Read this two part story and find out what happens when one partner plays with fire causing the other to get burned.

• Language: English
• Publisher: M. Demetrice
• Release date: Feb 21, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311847386

M. Demetrice

Indie Writer, M. Demetrice resides in Lufkin, TX and is the author of Multi-Genre Short Stories by a Woman Whose Husband Holds Her Purse. Her many works includes Sadie, The Olds, and Carrot Cain. For fun, she tutors the inspiring young in math and reading. She has a degree in Human Services from Angelina College and has incorporated resourceful information into her moving short story, Poetry’s AIDS. To learn more about M. Demetrice and read her published works, please visit her website at http://marlenahixson.wix.com/mdemetrice

Book preview

POETRY’S AIDS

M. Demetrice

1

Copyright © 2015 M. Demetrice

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Disclaimer: Some material in this book is for mature audiences only and contain strong content.

POETRY’S AIDS

M. Demetrice

Dedicated to Jack.

Gone but not forgotten.

Oh, Hopeless Sickness

Do Not Embrace Me Yet

For I’m Young and Naïve Still

Wanting My Fill of Bliss

Sickness Laughed and

Bowed Its Head

With a Reply of Dread

Embraced Already

We Have Young One

And Soon You Will Be Dead

This cannot be happening. I’m twenty-eight, single; don’t have any kids that I know about. You know just living the player’s dream. Get more pussy thrown at me than an entertainer and now the doctor is telling me that I’m HIV positive. I’m looking at him with this dumbass expression on my face. Man, I’m telling you that right now, while sitting in this sterile bright environment with a picture of a fucking monkey eating a banana while scratching his ass, has got me pissed. This has got to be a dream. Marcus, just wake your tired ass up and get out of this nightmare. I close my eyes and picture all the women I have slept with, the images numerous. It’s September 5th on a stupid Tuesday, and I’m sitting in front of Dr. Wexler staring at his bald pasty face wondering if the guy ever thought about hair implants.

Mr. Poetry, did you hear me?

I look up at him – well, the whole time I’m sitting here, my eyes are on him but I’m not really seeing him. I squint, look into his blue eyes and ask him to repeat what he just said.

"Mr. Poetry, the