(no subject)
Flooded tunnels.
There's a happy medium pouring from clenched muscles,
vibrant and clotted,
begging to illuminate bright canvas,
eager to illustrate the horrors of womanhood,
while indirectly emanating beauty and giving proof of life.
"Thou shall not hide me any longer."
Oxygenated blood cells,
interior conflicts battling out the truth.
What it means to have a cave on the insides,
how far down the stalactites reach.
To wake the bats is to propel forward
into inevitable contractions.
Lonely bats.
A monthly presence.
Drain the cave.
Clear out the tunnel.
Send the bats to bed.
Low tide, high moon.
Be still.
As once were.