She has the moon in her eyes

But, this body is a black hole,
a hollowed out womb-
and these palms are sandpaper
thin and bleeding a silent stigmata.


"Not yet ripe to fall from her bed,
too young to understand her own limbs-"


She folds back July's origami skin,
wishing for the warmth of winters kiss.
She is a raven heart, thumping wildly
against the whispers of vintage lips.


Her bed is empty,
but the sheets are red.