Walkin on Air

Unspeakable Words

Never stops hurting
those assaulting flashbacks,
yesternights at the cloister:

pubescent lust
deluded by curiosity,
prodded by naiveté.

My recall relentlessly
slaughters all feelings of decency.
Look at me now,

am habitually working
skimpily clothed, reshuffling
repetitive intrusions.

Eyes like empty shot glass
reflect errant grief
framed in green mascara:

wistful defiance of my
unbearable identity, who
can relate?

There was a time
long gone when attraction
played coy slag and teaser;

lips puckered in expectancy
of something more
than lipstick. Maybe the

old priest fellatio became
incalculable impetus
for a harlot's beginning?

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Unspeakable Words

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