naked

I’m stitching a dress.



Words for a neckline, hung about my breast. My shoulders bare and feathered by beaded notes hung from my lobes.


Skirt crackling, swinging around my ankles, framing my bare feet in pages torn from a book half written.


Thread of whisper tacked through, blue and bright like star fire.


The twist of prose rustling soft over my stomach, laying a kiss on my hip.


I walk under endless indigo at twilight.


This space in time where I am humbled on a dark rise cloaked in my worth.


Ride comets and walk sightless, the sound of parchment leading me home. Leading me back to good.


My hair is wild around my face, and I taste my condition as it whips over my lips.


I found you huddled under wooden boxes of chaos.


I watched you lift the lid in ginger gestures, flip to a memory and catch a smoky breath.


We breathe out the dust of novels sleeping until we ravish someone else’s divinity.


I want to lie down just one night without the screech of demon's ringing.


I want to be naked as I came, before quill pricked finger, before sound.


I am only a woman, in a dress.

I am only a woman living in a sentence.

I am only a woman...


I can’t breathe…