The poetry left her in drops.
Pale, almost pink splotches gathered around her lips, waiting to fall against the faded cotton cloth.
A spasm, almost a cough, and the bright red of wicking blood appeared, aching, into her panties.
Her loins, the space between her thighs and her ownership, twisted. Burned.
Wretched, against the death of another almost being, as if punishing her for idle fertility.
Useless in the body of a womyn made to love other womyn.
So she dressed to live.
Wide blue jeans, hand-me-downs from the brother of another sister, her girlfriend’s pants.
Extra inches kept the jeans from choking her uterus, while a belt gathered them close around her hips.
Shoulders bare and shivering, she discarded the red and black lace of her favorite push up,
For worn grey-white comfort, carefully drawing the elastic over her tender breasts.
On a sigh, she rested, breathed in and resigned herself to swollen unkissed lips
Bruised and bumped breasts, no matter the layers between her curved skin and the offending world.