Her hands.
They shape to see,
they move, they writhe
to feel.
They string webs of lies above her breasts,
softly swallowing her oleander skin.
Her hands, they grab,
they grope for something
that inhabits the pages of magazine-
a paper monster.
Contained beneath her pearl-painted fingers,
adorned in the fantasies she wishes to become.
The monster she wishes to release from the ink-blood of the pages
upon herself.
To breathe through her,
see through her,
exist through her,
adorned in the fantasies she wishes to become.
Trembling fingertips grace the words, the physique,
the living breathing color of it's pitiful perfection.
To steal this monster, to string it beneath her neck,
and eventually craft it into
herself.
To reinvent the mold that her hands so carefully
embody.

And beneath a deep-rooted elm,
her eyes almost liberating the beast jailed between the pages of her bible,
she looks up towards the leaves,
the tree itself-
archetectured in a way as volatile as the creature desired:
poised, lithe, and inexplicably refined.
How the tree sways, a bold silhouette between the legs of Mother Nature.
She embraces the trunk of this tree, so beautiful and ancient
akin to her desires.
The branches suit her better.