M: I can't write when I'm not sad and I'm afraid I'd be desperate enough to chase my demons back and offend them so much they'd track me down more violently than they did before.
P: Why are you writing now? What makes you sad?
M: I don't know. It will always be here. Just hiding. Waiting to grab me when least expected.
P: I'll be with you.
---
hush little lady
you with the nicotine fingers
and artificial winter breath
(hide you're breasts, they're distracting.)
you crease your brows
in the middle of white walls and silver windows
you look older that your bones -
white coffins to your marrows.
red circles, and green, and yellow
as the ones in your cheek
(where did you get them?
I don't know.
a hand landed on my face and I like it
oh I'm liking it even more.)
virtue little lady
where has it gone?
you washed your laundry by hand
and innocence was bleached
along with the stains
of baby screams and distorted dreams
(stop talking
you shame me
you scare me)
hush little lady
you with the nicotine fingers
and artificial winter breath
(show me you're breasts, they're ravishing.)
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