(en)wrapped in duvet cotton cover 

Soft 

Pillow prayed on knees 

Fabric caress with brittle bones

Supple wrist for playing ivory keys 

Movement as graceful coordination where choreographers play with improvisation 

And sturdy steel beneath 

The flesh that holds and understands the need and the risk to lay all bare but holds one in its naivety and childish endeavours 

A growing into flesh but not like breaking in shoes

As girl becomes woman and becoming is something to embrace and to fear because there can be no turning back 

A woman is a woman is a woman 

But not as a rose is a rose is a rose 

Sticky rice and sticky leaves 

Mangoes fallen from their trees 

And consumption is luxury

To place a mind and its endeavours into a usual communal experience that at once ripped into solitary guilt and what if it was cathartic and what if poetry was a kind of catharsis

Like those artists who attempt at a self or world healing 

But we cannot escape ourselves 

Or the routine of complacency and comfort 

When things feel fine there must be something wrong 

Or what I thought 

And 

Or maybe 

Perhaps it is all a mere jumble of thoughts and understandings and too many self reflections that push deeper into minds pin-pricked needles turning into screws attempting to search and search and search and research and research and research coaxing out some sort of answer because there can’t just be questions can there and then haven’t we already searched enough inside of ourselves the parts that could’ve or should’ve been kept a mystery of private laid out and exposed stolen dignity with stifled feelings and burnt out analysis to critique and aim at some form of perfection to be left with what

When it is jarring to step outside and open another world that is not ours and may never be but there have been footsteps before and there will be more enough to comfort torn hearts