that once was soft. But now
is spined. Her back is lined
with spiky quills. Every barb that
jabs her is a place a man has

stabbed her. A living pincushion
that when rolled over holds herself up
by the skewers. Now water passes
through her. She doesn't get wet. But she’ll

stick to you if you touch her. And you'll
bleed a gusher for the softness. From the thorns
she's built a fortress.