On the floor of your bedroom,

the walls that have shaped you, nurtured you

folded you and molded

you from the clay we call flesh

into the woman,

you now breathe through.

Now, here, you believe in words,

bleeding and containing your heart-

you write, grab the pen


and hold.

Indian-style, your legs a little too long,

by about an inch or so.

Your hair neatly dangling, soundly

evoking a suicide plunge between your breasts.

The rhythm of pen between fingers loosens,


and you place it down gently, and realize-

that that's all you have to say.

Mid sentence; no punctuation, periods,

or 'the-ends'.

Just a heap of paper and afterthoughts, sprawled beneath your limbs,

like a blanket to cover your beautifully imperfect physique.