virtuoso

the pressure cracks her ribs. tyranneous. 

a carnal split, cleavage; it was a soft colour of sienna. softly wheatish. 

caramelized. 

only for the good chunk of her skin. she was a commodity. 

my love of the ship sailed; with her heavy chest and her thick, burrowed pink lips. i was gleefully, bewitched stitch. 

restraint. held captive. 

but in-between her chest, her mural of spewed flesh;

her body gutted above the indifferent sand; it was all seasoned. paprika. 

her ribs; her nose cracked open noise. i was startled - seemingly aware of the spontaneity that there was a humming noise. a humming radio of static as if it were sifting through a plethora of channeling and stations so as to play a fervent piece. a piece it could mutilate itself on. a pie. 

it was a visual splutter. all I remember is her rear, spinal back. black. i blacked out. i kept blacking out. 

i was a cicada. 

warm red. you could tell it was moist. 

i am a circida.

i trill. droning snuffled like the moth under her house,

under her soft, succulent; tender flesh; 

drilling sharp, so percussive it stammers the needles into your fragile cochlea. downed a conundrum. 

it feels like a thousand needles stabbed into my eardrums. i'd deafen out from the sharp shrilling stammer. 

tamer. i stuttered. 

but something in me had struck through though i was only a cicada. 

i stood ashamed in the truth of what I'd put.