i think of my body the same as a orange.
laid bare and perfect in a stained glass fruit bowl.
men have always loved me, my scent, my essence, my belonging.
they look at me like an orange laid bare.
ready to be peeled and picked apart with there hands.
man handling a delicate skin, to be torn and ripped.
shredding off sections one by one to be stewed and chewed on, without love
..... or indeed a second thought.
ČTEŠ
man machine
Poeziehe's a man, and he always will be leader of the pride, leather of most motions.
