Her other self has kept her company. She believes she’s more of this and three of that. For how long? We don’t know. She wouldn’t tell. She said she’d rather recline on treacherous waters than roll over the dainty flowerets grinding juice. The kind he would never understand. It’s when she feels that for the first time a real man possesses her; wrecking her innards like a cannibal. She only wants to dance on the floor like a girl not a whore. She wants him to stare at her; the way her body so skinny juggles the weight of the lecherous truth, the dwindling pain of loss and defeat and the whimsical trait of love. She supposes that the hearts’ of men are on their cocks or so she believes that’s how they love. She waits, and waits again. . .some more. To see if waiting could extinguish her anguish to touch him with her bare hands and make him vow not to leave her. But how does a woman love a man and a man love a woman? To be naked. To be shown. To stand both until your calves become weary? To leave and be left?
Tell me something I do not know.