A woman’s body is a playground. They are jungle gyms made of softness and gentleness. The yellow stripes tattooed on bees are slivers of anxient sunbeams. Some truths cannot hold us. The fire hisses out in the hearth of our collective memory, and we are each assigned an idea to degrade. Woman is a fallen tree. A woman’s mind is a 4 course meal. A woman is herself when summer ends and leaves her holding a cute tote with “Try me” emblazoned on it in red letters.
Miniature Moon 