“The nights she locks the door– you better get it open.”

The tempest rages, battering the battlements of good judgment, bombarding built-up balustrades of consciousness.

It smacks stones of sense, degrading details and destroying any moniker of self-mothering.

Naked to it’s lustful and dominating advance, it blazes, emulsifying any educated reciprocity between mind and body.

Keep still until it passes.

Don’t split the skin. Don’t drain the wound.

You should know by now, that monster is a part of you.

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