Loaded tongue. Words greased with ammo.
She was always ready to fire.
But.
Something has changed from the past few days.
She thinks, I think, that her tongue dawdles into a numbing pain. It’s frail. Diseased.
Sickly blob of skin.
Leashes are let out on her.
Bruises are blue. Embossed over her knees. Peeking at her like children from Kashmir
.
What will she tell her friends when they see it? They will think that heroine has died. Her courage has evaporated and now, some tamed bitch has taken her place.
She won’t walk up to you with bosoms heaving with stories and fingers, dripping pride.
She won’t swell with midnights of handsome escapades or feel that need to.
HSE SHE HSE ESH has been longing to break words and shove them into electric sockets.
She will sit in her room and watch the sparrows fly away.
One by one.
Come inside a smokey room. With a paper and pen. Incense and cigarettes, flowers and water. They all go together, too well.
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