Embarrassed at her crude, superficial motivations she continues. This is a hidden therapy she’s toying with. She thinks she isn’t any good. She doesn’t know as many words as he does.
Comparison is her damnation.
Look at her, she’s plastered herself to the floor.
Immobile, she can’t even reach the glass ceiling threshold.
He slithers away, contented.
I explore the reasons I started writing poetry again. Realising, it was to impress a boy who is a poet himself it led me to this take on Adam & Eve and original sin.
