Thursday, June 18, 2015

poetry - it still looks a little raw

duct tape across my mouth
tight bindings that chafe and burn
salt tingling, drops of yearning

I look down at the space between my breasts
jaws clench in muted frustration
it still looks a little raw

my fingers fiddle with a lip of tape about my wrists
a fault in my bindings that I've worked free
and can undo

I consider that...

this space is uncomfortable
begs for fulfulment
no amount of denial, of persistence,
of repeating that the bare walls are beautiful as they are
changes the reality that I want this place different.

If only that paint were a different colour

And I wasn't fucking tied up.

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