Paper Trail
She is nothing,
but she has a point of view.
She is young,
but she rummages through
the tissues in her bra,
she’s no star.
She has no pockets
for ritzy spent dockets;
she is just nothing,
but she has a point of view.
He’s not the right image,
for you, true blue.
You’re tiptoeing around
with only one shoe.
He’s not the right image
for us too.
The female beast
is the one inside you.
Censoring self,
isn’t your due.
There’s blue paint
on the ceiling,
as a short-film mart.
Plastered on the wall
peeling off your heart,
is just the start.
The hostage burns slow
when the light gets too low.
Self-sabotage protects the other,
self-delete inserts another.
Anon.