She’s at a loss.
Her voice quietens, weakens.
She’s not herself.
She’s been transformed, absorbed into someone else.

She’s a fishing boat in a stormy sea.
Stormy then calm.
Stormy then calm.
Her mind is a whirlwind of easy offences.
She is a pit of jealousy;
a lustful late-teen.
Her mind is a television
broadcasting her desires:
Eight red lines upon a pale back,
Shoulders indented with two curved rows
from clenched teeth.
Morse code embossed on sweet flesh.
Love bites around *******,
on thighs, on buttocks.

A fictional programme.

Turn fiction into non-fiction
and rescue her mind; a mere sailor.
Reach the shore and rescue her.
Find her again.
Find her voice, her strength.
Evaporate the stormy sea and leave her,
wholly herself.