Too melodramatic? A little 19th C, perhaps?

April 25, 2007

Shriveled parched and white.
Cursed by sweet kisses false
In the heat of spring,
These “softest lips” now sting.

The flesh-lover inspected and adored
Through a magnifying glass.
Once satisfied, left the instrument to rest there
Coaxing and directing a branding sun.

Plucked ripe and scalped, her scorched
Lips on display for all to see,
In the attic windows along the river Ill.

No balm could unrip,
No cream could uncrush.
No jelly could uncrinkle
Wounded pride for the unseen.

Curled like a fetus, her head rested on the smooth enamel.
The shower water ran over her, collected between her belly and
Thighs, and scalded her as she slept,
Waking intermittently to lap in the splash.

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