If only you could write her thoughts from behind those oval eyes.
from underneath that choppy, frayed, bang
from deep within that powdery, brie skin.
You may learn that she’s the most eccentric flavor that has ever swept your palette.
She’s the sweetest breeze zipping through the crack of your cars window.
The skin of your lips might undress to further pursue her.
Her thoughts are raw, sexually excitable, and uncensored.
The mere images from within her mind trigger your nerves, however forgotten they be-
they may stretch under the fine fibers of your muscle,
may claw, and stab, and writhe their way straight up to nervous.
And its all possible before a single touch.
In this study of woman, you may find that inside she’s dark,
that her flamingo- pink- persona is actually a scarred, dry, pulverized- pear; bruised to a deep maroon.
It might just become windex- commercial- clear, that she wants to leap out of the feelings of grief that clothe her organs from within.
That, just as you exist in hiding, she stomachs the hard to swallow secrets that took root within her life.
She is pure and bitter, like an apricot seed sliding down a cancer patients throat.
A hopeful ideal- but, in an frank sense, terminal.
Gather what you may about her, just know that if love ever existed, the park to plant within is hers.
She may not be as plain of a Jane as you were hoping for, but she’s her one hundred percent of the time.
And she’s not waiting for you to know that.
Maybe get to know her- no agenda.
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