feminine

not romantic
nor nice
a depths of hell
not shrouded in the tatters of a bitten black rose
singed petals
skinny whispers
drunken linen
rough spittled egg shell
contorting into porcelain

bones blown into reeds

a landscape
like you could plié right off of her navel
her nape a runway
dancing down to her rafters
toe nails shaped like emery diving boards
no driving forward
without the tag line of desirable
flat lining
cocooned in lily pads of wrinkled skin
left in a free for all

a no more

just word play
fraying
like being thirsty
and biting into a square of dry denim