The clasp,

loose and rusting

barely contains the flesh

of lust – pucker’d and visceral.

You feast.


Wire mesh

cuts the skin deep.

So delicately bound,

to structure the irritation

of love.



the slackened skin,

worn thin. Waits trembling.

Fraying lace frippery betrays

the lie.


The straps

hold no tension.

Strained by the constant pull,

hanging limply. Exposed for all:

the truth.


And she,

held in by clasps,

held up by wire, mesh & straps,

held prisoner by a past is

not me.


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