I am perfect.

My child-bearing hips jut like harps without my child-bearing flesh.

Egg whites and water will fill your stomach after a while.

I am social.

(she laughs)

Communication’s hard when you’re a hermit inside the headbox.

Two months locked inside a room and you find another use for the pointy end of a high-heeled shoe.

I feel.

(she thinks)

easy easy bruiser, you learn to like to see them.

Hedonism is flypaper.

I will exist.

(she pleads)

Dead soul makes dead nerves,

Electric toothbrush rubbed against your clit and you barely came.