strawberrying
she keeps breaking pencils. they slip between fingers hard as ice and cold. she wants to pull out the splinters of the poem but her pencils keep breaking.
don't touch it like that it deserves more than our dirty fingertips, your angry suicide plots. don' lick your lips or kiss the ground. to die is more than you will know in your lifetime.
she tugs the loops, fingers ravishing the smooth satin. "i'm ready." she smiles, heels red as the devil's breast. she tiptoes down the steps, and meets the man at the door with a kiss.
coughing, she's hacking away, her lungs are spitting out from between her teeth as she runs and runs and runs away, far away from this bitter plague. the city burns behind her back, the flames licking up the grass.
hands meet and rest between each other. are they in love? the dog yaps. the fence is starch white and the car is unstained by pigeon scat. dinner bakes in an oven. the child lays eight feet below.
she smiles as she scrubs the pans, her own hands rubbed raw. she smiles as she dusts the bookcases and sweeps the floors. but she is not happy - the domestic housewife.
it's like a scar, she thinks, poking at it. the brown beauty mark left by sun-god kisses-- a mole, one her fingertips worry and prod. how daft the world to not be so amused by apparent ugliness.
i'm tempted to run -
i want to get away from here.
home is where the pain is.
home is where the lies live.
i want to leave.
the ropes dig into my neck, the salt of the sea stinging raw flesh opened by rough fibers. i want this, and yet i cannot have it. i want it the way he wanted it before his temptation was satisfied.
smile through the sermon, pretend you are not affected by the scalding wounds left by tender kisses. she is not here, and it is sin to want her around your waist the way you do right now.
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