“ You were, arecactus tourism. meeting you: granularfractals borrowed from oceans. ”
It's my choice to be beautiful. It's my choice to be ugly. And it's my choice to decided what those words actually mean.
~ Virginia Petrucci
What bothers me most about my teeth is that they don’t travel loin south, don’t sprout from the Mother Mouth. Vagina dentata, come closah, say high.
Numbered are the daysof hunger stricken straysa woman's curving tastea paper police state.
You look within and upon and around me, savoring every inch. You pull my ear for no reason, and I can tell you really don’t want to cry. As a tear falls between by breasts, I look away and pretend the grass is a jungle, and the ants, little kings of forgotten tribes.
