Wednesday, January 6, 2010

conversations with your naked

She left the door, and as she left the door, she left part of herself – that she needed, she needed that part – but she left it anyways. She did not forget it. She was very aware of this slit, even though there was no blood, it didn’t drip – she was very aware, that her pain was negligible to how alert she was, as she left the door, the stranger that raped bits and pieces of her – otherwise not so very whole self, until she reached the spot where she felt comfortable. From her clitoris, she grabbed a piece of chalk, that she kept for occasions such as this one. She pressed it to the ground and rotated around herself – her body as axis – she revolved as herself, as lust, as compass as loss, as willful captivity, as safety only within chalk checkpoints. She sat in her circle, her home – and she wept as if to fill the extrusion of this virtual cylinder in which she resides in, now – that she had left the door.

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