She’s Not As Pretty As

They Dream Of Men With Gentle Hands, Eloquent With Tenderness, Fingers That Brushed Along A Cheek, That Outlined Open Lips In The Lovers' Braille. Hands That Sculpted Sweetness From Sullen Flesh, That Traced Breast And Ignited Hips, Opening, Kneading. Flesh Becomes Bread In The Heat Of Those Hands, Braided And Rising.

One Can Bear Anything. The Pain We Cannot Bear Will Kill Us Outright.

I Couldn't Imagine Owning Beauty Like My Mothers. I Wouldn't Dare.

She Was A Beautiful Woman Dragging A Crippled Foot And I Was That Foot. I Was Bricks Sewn Into The Hem Of Her Clothes, I Was A Steel Dress

What Can I Say About Life? Do I Praise It For Letting You Live, Or Damn It For Allowing The Rest?