Fracturing, massaging the rosary at my bust.
I have been a cordial moll. administering myself several honey suckles.
Recanting that one day, I will have to tell the tale, but for now I sell secession.
Gainsaying that folktales can be sewn closer by dynasty.
Realizing myself in this prose practice.
The rubric of the floor, departed birds.
The black pearls around wrist peeling to flash middlemost plastic.
Pitapat off-string, opaline false tracks.
It won’t be substratal to recall this.
Forgotten will be me, bracing at the yawning window, the wind whip writhing my hair.
It is painful for you to listen, so closely, so intensely.