| *loolaville _poetry | |||||
| I. On his childhood bed, with broad daylight streaming through the windows making my skin as pale as the sheets and stripping my bare body of any grace or perfection, that pinch came deep inside me, like the sharp sensation I felt when I was a little girl and I stuck my finger in my belly button as far as it could go. Cradled somewhere in his arms, with his soft, wet back in my palms... I might have considered slightly what I had traded for this moment of false freedom that we insisted we created. I could taste his salty skin while my eyelids slipped half shut and the sunlight danced around my damp eyelashes, eroding my mind, massaging it, speaking sweetly to me: Indifference. |
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