Writing (2)
Lines of ecstasy, seduction and presence, hooking into my womb-through metal teeth beckoning full authority of my mask face. Calculating clavicles rectifying the space through softness and deliberate attacks without speaking. It, we, us no longer singular. My hair is alive with finely tuned eyes. We look to the other with with anger and unrest. Why have you displaced us for trivial pride in something that os not yours to claim? See my fury through open legs.
Kimberley
Meteor-i-bite