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.
Mar 9, 2012
Mar 9, 2012 at 12:55 PM UTC
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.