The Asexual Lesbian.
It used to be that I wouldn’t worry:
I’d hear their teeth chattering and think it was better than something else; but then I’d remember I was too young; to think that way; and that was a problem that meant something;
I’d see the cheetah at their beds; and I was terrified of animals; and that’s how come we became so close; t’hanging clothes on your odes.
I knew they;d be scared of the cheetahs but less than what caused their own teeth chattering; this isn’t one of those applications where your teeth are only chattering because you can’t see the blinds straight; and it’s still the time of curtains; when mattresses are new; this isn’t that application; this is the application where they didn’t actually cause it; and we weren’t at controlling all cause yet;
The Brick Wall.
I looked at the material of those curtains they were so shiny almost satin and so thick I wondered about their heat; and cooling; and how different they were from the water in a pool outside; and how similar they were too to the moon; But we only see the moon here on our regular rest period; I missed the moon so much during work hours; that I woke up too early for myself and crinkled myself into clothes my body still soapy from last night’s wash; but if not soapy enough; well, then:
I’d just was again; in a double; H
If you missed the moon too much; even without water; how odd that sounds;
You just wouldn’t have nightmares a la regulare.
I was only 8 but I was very very butch; and I think people were scared. But the cheetahs weren’t and I was raising all those boys so well. In the peaked dips of Boise you could work out with cheetahs and all those like cheetahs before day broke light. The moon dropped spare changed in freaky rickety drawers and you could with those check out books that weren’t yet at the library; like recommendations; you were learning how to be an adjunct librarian. It’s hard at 10. But so dreamy like the moon. The coating shut eyes and the mimick of rhythms in eye lashes is all a child’s invention; that’s durned intho the gross “dreams” of non-alluring adult women. It’s gross. Get those women! Away from the butch child.
With rip-tide like that you never really need a man around for too Long; they could go back to their lives at the chance if like real men they never got. It’s a fun rip tide; until you slosh close to its brink; all of sudden; you understand what Brink is.
For the women I don’t hate; I ask you tone done being a woman; and then you don’t have to hid the face that you are a woman; a women; it works then. It’s glad. Like a glad moon; that’s your new purpose and not giving children unholy nightmares until the cheetahs arrive. And you basque into the maritia.
The Culture of Women.
Because it no longer hurts to be her; I mean physically hurts.