like bug infested fruit.
Spoiling on the inside,
spilling out across the attic floor.
Ravaging lace and flesh,
she impersonates a female.
A martyr of motherhood
they’ll make of her yet.
The wilderness of womanhood
is a utopia for the lamb
pretending she does not see
the slaughterhouse before her.
Ungodly, she stares down car headlights,
about as much use now as roadkill.
Soul rapture;
like pulling trash out of a lake.
The seed of submission
nesting in the belly of a god.
This rampage of tenderness
will make a woman of her yet.