Do I soothe?
His smiling is so often pained--
Does the studied imperfection of my skin please
With a piece of inferiority he can chew?
My arms are waves, my legs undertow; I roll
Don't I make you think water?
Do my lips still taste of salt? No one
Has ever called me sweet. Perhaps one of those
Freaks one reads about--
A truly frigid woman--
I don't lament it. He cannot touch me.
I will sweep him out to sea.


this was written on a tuesday morning, which makes it rather prophetic, if one were to choose to look at it as such. maybe i am a fucking prophet. maybe i'm just an idiot. ach! be childish then.