Monday 11/12/2007 01:38:00 AM

She's blind so you must forgive her for not seeing. Favors of the tongue bargain with the structure of vision. For little shits of sight too small to stink. Too big to flush. In the child there is knowing. The end is close. In the woman there is the execution of memory. Colorless palettes. Dry brushes. Still pretending to paint. Failed portraits. Life was. Is. Shall always be. A cancer. To be cured. A tumor to by cut out of the pale terminology of skin.

She makes braids. Thick ones. She folds one hair into the next. Until there are none left.

She assigns each orgasm a name. She's lonely. And she knows it. To make them real. She sweatss. Surere still. The lies aren't untrue. She makes them last. When it's done. And they're not there to blame. She colors in every outline. As though they never left her.

Promising the fairy tale she won't betray it.

She tries them on. In lying mirrors. That make it all look beautiful when it's not. She wears them. As small as they are. She likes how tight they fit.

| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2024. All Rights Reserved.