grey night tugs at a sliver of light
nightly I decay and my innards cry
faithful eyelids shut and screen
Deflowerment — sold out, night and day
I am star of the show, I am prima donna
lifeless first lady of the stage
I am a tired flower, one that has bloomed too many times
passionless, devoid
almost anti-climatic
like sad fistfuls of grass or something milked dry
I crawl toward The Little Death
yearning only to be ensconced wholly in a white Void