I can escape my gray prison cell of thoughts to the sunny orgasm-filled jail yard that awaits me just outside the doors, but the whores and dicks can wait for five more minutes.
For now, I think. I feel. I can see myself moving. the rest seems pointless. I look at my eyes and my mascara-brushed eyelashes look like spider legs wrapped around a green round bug. I open the faucet and wait for the water to heat up, and like a distant childhood memory they drip human-like temperatures over my face, my neck, my collar bone. The spider melts into dark tears that disappear in the whirlpool. The green bug is free again.
I ask myself: Diamond or Gold? Icy purity against hot power? What would define me and do I need to be defined?
Or actually, just which earring to put on...
At this very moment, I could be defined by the word:
pear.
Lush. Ripe. Ready to be bit.
ready to...
drip down skin and throat
satiate uncontrollable hunger
slake the thirst of a thousand men.
But,
I'm a pear.
hanging from a tree.
Lush. Ripe. Ready to be bit.
But untouched.
Intact. Harmless. Virgin.
I'm a pear who does not want to rot and fall off to the soft ground and get eaten by the worms.
I'm a pear who will let you on a little secret.
The green round bug
is not a bug.
It's actually the cobweb.
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