Moral Fall

Someday I will devour the scent of the flower in a street where I walk past just to get in the train of what they call life. One day, I will walk—not passively, like I have all the time in the world—slowly. To feel it, to touch it, to make a room for little things as all young race for greatness. These bones and ribs are of a paradox; I ought to be a temple, a silence, a resting place—everything a woman wants to do—where I could talk about my sorrows to a point of mending. Inversely, I am a woman with two selves; there are missiles and grenades and an armored car inside my dress. If you undressed me, you'd see it's living inside of me—full of rage, a pool of blood, and a wondering little lady in a forest of fantasies.