N'er more
Hath I no soft, supple breasts for you to rest your countenance on?
Do I refuse your entry into my most sacred of femininities?
Your presumption of precociousness seems to triumph above all.
Your requisite autonomy has killed my inner constancy.
I lay my own weary skull on my cold, cotton comforter
that neither placates my soul nor provides a soothing solace
in a time so desperate of respite from this ever unremitting woe.
Another dismal tune to hinder those from observing me in my disgrace.
Another morrow drenched with reddened eyes and swollen cheeks.
Preoccupied as I am, the barest of necessities seem to be fulfilled
as my mind engrosses itself in flights of fancy that will never be.
Do I refuse your entry into my most sacred of femininities?
Your presumption of precociousness seems to triumph above all.
Your requisite autonomy has killed my inner constancy.
I lay my own weary skull on my cold, cotton comforter
that neither placates my soul nor provides a soothing solace
in a time so desperate of respite from this ever unremitting woe.
Another dismal tune to hinder those from observing me in my disgrace.
Another morrow drenched with reddened eyes and swollen cheeks.
Preoccupied as I am, the barest of necessities seem to be fulfilled
as my mind engrosses itself in flights of fancy that will never be.