There are too many sleepless nights under the belt of my eighteen year old waist. Some were spent in hysteric tears, others in hot flashes of desire, others in the timid repel for a loss affection.I lay awake in the bed, sweat trailed along my brow, and between breasts, and I watch the beads roll down this desert.There is little moisture that comes to these parts.

Sometimes I scream into the pillows and rage wars between heaven hell and earth. I, tentatively, purge things --find the weight of words like liberation cunt and death to be mildly calmly, and bathe with the smell of incense and darkness around me.

I feel like an Eyeball with an eyelash in it.