“it was her wrists. they were beautiful.”
- valerie page, v for vendetta

soft underbelly of a fish, full of flesh,
is the spot where veins peel off and breed,
is the spot where she hides wrinkles in old leather
under the scents of lavender and libraries.

nobody falls in love with that anyway,
soft skin showing all its scars.
you see what you want in the bone,
fish-ribs forming a pit in your stomach,

twisting it like a cherry stem you prove your worth,
while she gives her wrist a flick and brings you in.
your eyes open wide, you stare at that spot,
fly-fishing lure on a line, holding you steady,

hiding the rot that builds underneath.