~~~°~~~


His hands were carving knives against my apricot skin.
He slid inside me,
delicately in a way that a small boat can
glide leisurely in a river bank.

There is an eclipse
between my womanhood and the morals
of my early teachings, between the villains of my childhood story books and the faces of people I am drawn to.
The peculiar menace they exude and yet
the fragile hum of their heartbeat against mine.

I am a lily pad, born with sandalwood fingers and a...