Turn fingers inside your skin, baby.

If she could creep fingers under her skin, she would find greasy alphabets with ten tongues to bite her back.

They will tell her about a television that lies to her everyfuckingminute and rattles over her body hair. Marilyn Monroe. Angelina Jolie. Elizabeth Taylor. They are all here. Their faces, swirling like holograms and then a mirror crashes, smoke rises from the window. She stains her lip with a bloodless red.

She couldn’t be a stranger but she is. To herself.

Sometimes when she caresses herself under the shower, her nipples don’t smile. Her hands don’t warm her thighs and her eyes look arid. Like, somebody just took everything off with a syringe. She sits there by herself, waiting for her body to sing back. So she can roll in the wet, mute grass that will only stare at her because nobody knows where she gets it from.

That huge black smell of a secret, it walks along. It adds on that beauty, that smiles and dangers and arouses and pisses.

This jagged, little hiccup runs in her veins. When she is unclothed and thrown out.

So much, so much longing to be loved? She stands in front of her lover: rock hard, to be punched back.

Let’s change trains from trains, one streetlight blinks. Other blurs away.

(Artwork- Mine.)