+ a turning +

The moon stood still.
So still.
Her eyes gazing toward the bed frame.
Blackened bars transforming
Their wooden legs
Into jail cells.

She could see through them.
Inside of them.
Men walking over her soul
And her mind…
And her heart…

The small of her back
Ached.
She saw his hand grace over,
Resting on her porcelain thigh.

And at the very last moment,
He took his other palm,
And placed it there, too.

Give her not your love stories.
Your broken insides
Waiting to be filled.
Give her not your tales of family woe;
How your blessed ones will choose
By knife
By pistol
By rope
By fire.

Just give her the truth.
And a chance.