Pretty girl, prettiest girl. Green, still, hard and unripe.
Green still, flesh just beginning to soften. Did you know you can beat a fruit to premature age?
Pretty girl is vivacious and witty, hiding in spot light, plain sight, ripped off the tree. The biggest bite taken out of her from a woman called mother.
Thin and perfect, involuntary, rare life hanging in the shadow of mother devourer. It was hard to see her own reflection clearly in the eyes of others, the swell of her breast filling up the beady beast-like eyes of both bitch and boy barbarism.
Paedomorphic form of soul feels the chill of newly exposed skin fresh tears sliding in concert with each cry. Fruity flesh flushing underneath browned bites.
Baby no longer, mother, pulsing cries torture the thick neurotic layer permeating the meat of the nearby bodies fermenting insomnia with each wave of nausea and hunger, no mother.
Let slip go and her now adult body slides apart and cascades onto the floor, into the arms of the hungry and the selfish. Curves swollen with sweat, sensual and sterile, scalding. Swollen sex, her semi-masticated corpse vitiating the throats of the hungry with each greedy swallow.
Colorful sexuality, struggling to find her meat, seductive anger, clutching at her ends, frayed from overuse and smudgy fingers.
Pretty girl is tired now, life a blur, her moments exchanged between hands that aren't hers, body commodity.
Pretty girl sees her dull eyes wider than she remembered. Rivets and lines tumbling down her face, every crevice a void of youth, gone.
blue trailing up her body where her skin has thinned from being made to ripen too early.
She looks at her myriad of gifts, souvenirs, portraits from humanity, of her, unrecognizable.
How could she be another person's appetite?
Visible vestiges, pale patches pushing back against the sun, tissue scarred still from consumptive beauty. a solemn smile parts back the curtain of age, true beauty no more, beyond, too small a word for the whole of her.
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