She had ripped off all
of her hair, removed all of her stains, all of her colors and took off all of
her clothes. She looked at the skin – the clear skin between her legs and
frowned. Somehow, there was something still wrong, still in plus about herself.
How much of this until she felt like enough of her walking away ? How much
of her until she’d feel like completely his, and not hers anymore ? So she
could escape, finally, through the holes – dark holes – of another body,
another pain.
Maybe she should have
burned off all of her covers – skin and blood – and see directly up to where
the organs started to melt, and the sun would shine clearly in the center of
her heart. Only then would she feel completely open and vulnerable and true in
the ugly truth of a soul at the bare feet of another.
Niciun comentariu:
Trimiteți un comentariu