See Coward

To her unfathomed dismay, mother's luck ran out of time.
The master bedroom was sanitized of all rights, including her joint-custody, and
rented to make ends meet; a fire of doomed nuptials never ceases when the smell
of cold, hard cash is involved.
My mind opposes the two people making love in my childhood bedroom
during these tough times. I was written out along with the woman who helped give
life; the mortgage is his daughter now, she must be taken care of properly.
Those papier-mâché flowers have kept every secret I once shared, one laying
on each branch unified into the cheap wallpaper my father tacked on when
I was thirteen. Unknowingly placed to watch over the labor of un-regal sex, their
leaves wither resembling water, as it runs dry from my eyes during visitations
in the absence of both wardens.
In a tasteless display, without the consent of she who came before, the
two unravel carnal favors; cupping breasts three sizes smaller than mother’s, biting lips whose mouths have committed harm to others with careless dialect, sucking
cock belonging to more than just the presently engaged, and helping one another touch a new grace. My glow in the dark stars still adhere, unlikely to retire soon; they were attached to shed light on night’s disturbance while finding sanction in the ripples of parental divorce, not on domestic faithlessness defined in action.

It must have been him, the model chosen to demarcate the word as
coward.