Determined to enable herself, to have her body's outline completed and coloured-in by others' desirous touches, she threw back your lid and rummaged through the costumes you offered, playing dress-up, parading — Romantic Artist, Woman-of-Sorrows, Queen-of-the-Night.
Her body a tempt-all. Her backside rose window letting in the light, her red mouth rose window sucking staining lollies, a family recipe of four flavours — mystery, vivacity, tragedy, turmoil. She voided sugary breath, she effused. Her letters were spendthrift declarations: Now we have a very deep, calm love. . . Trying it on, a child with teddy-guests and plastic tea-set, pouring out — playing my civility, your society.
She was insolvent. Her 'I lOve yoU's didn't cheque out. But she did — dishonoured, her account in arrears, her debts to honesty fallen due. Your smudged-picture sweetheart, who couldn't come to the party or fit her clothes.
Wet dreams. Fallen dew. Night omissions.