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
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,
Just a heap of paper and afterthoughts, sprawled beneath your limbs,
like a blanket to cover your beautifully imperfect physique.