Lipstick lesbian with the geisha's face. She squelches tears hard enough to carve valleys through the snow in her eyes. I can't tell if she fears my lashing tail, or the spectre of realization. Shapely, ghoulish shoulders frame a hundred questions. When she speaks, the earth of graveyard enlightenment tumbles from her mouth. Terribly, terribly attractive, her post-mortem epiphanies. A chrysalis of curiosity serves as her shroud and aura.
Her words work-- unknowingly-- to exhume herself, while I struggle and race to entomb her again with spadefuls of ambivalence and murdered hopes. Shards of broken expectations-- like murder-scene glass-- glitter against the light of her eyes.
What I thought was dead by asphyxiation stirs again. And I don't know how to throttle it back to sleep.
11:18 p.m. - 2014-12-04
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