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SHUSH

She pursed her lips to a stop.
Not that her mouth wasn't full of prickly words too,
She was taught to hold her tongue.
She was taught how to stop on a full.
Bite your tongue, hiss backwards the commas, stab the colons to semis and strangle the quotation markers.
She was told.
She traded her bold to a hold.
Her tattoos took her aback.
Those days when mum was an artist;
She would paint Hercules in Superman's cape at a stroke of her bamboo brush,
Milking the brows of Mona Lisa,
And in one instance, mimicking something close enough to Nike's logo.
Her board is spaceless now and that's senseless
For her body could not harbor any more decor.
Not even at a discount, no. 


She looked pale,
The sunset was bright,
Her eyes dimmer,
Her thighs, thinner.
The hinge, weaker.
Tired from the many frictions she moans to.
They enter without booking, 
Without prior notice of a call;
Dress torn, zipper down,
Her first moan was for Ali Baba, her uncle.
She was only a decade
Same as the arcades,
Who would believe her story when her mother was the author?
When her mother was the mastermind behind her stops?



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