Do we marry only to proliferate new earths? And to make the soil speak again? Do those blood-filled sacks women carry— ventilating tiny breaths— define real love?
Just because I wear the name 'woman', doesn't mean I'll bare myself to you— like the moon offering herself to the night. I'd rather remain—an unopened bottle of wine.
We compress every feeling into a smile—a rainbowed universe painted across the crescent of our mouths, because the cosmos fits between two lips and the
You placed that long, humming conduit in me and I jolted, a surge in the dam, my limbs stuttering like loose wires, no rhythm, no balance —just current.