
Empty.
Yearning.
She craves the raspy-nothing of sandpaper
to free her from
skin.
To open her to the light flash whiteness of wider, more infinite
skies
plains
roads
heavens
twilight
living
being.
Sun to bleach her bones.
Cravings unsated, raw.
Itching for release
and
redemption.
–Charla M. DelaCuadra