The pen dipped, lustily
moaning out the words
scrawled so messily that I had to squint
still no angel's tears to wash away
dead pink skin resting on white.
Brow furrowed, hand
reaching, brush away
strangled curls and dry humor.
I turned the paper upside down but
the frowns had not turned up their ink stained lips.
Try, but Victorian Qs are not
flowing from steepled fingers
forgive,
I've still not tied corsets 'round their
free will.
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