ForestDanceOfAleKai

The Dress She Wears It rides the slow curve of her hips pulls tight against them as she walks her gait confined to conscious steps. Not long enough to be lady-like, too long to be whorish, it falls heavily over tired thighs, licking the tops of her knees.  The neckline plunges.  A greedy vice, it squeezes the bulk of her heavy breasts up until they spill out for all to see. Its coarse and jealous-green fabric scratches her most delicate places rubbing them raw, I know, until her skin weeps a salty pink. Made before we were born, it is given us by our mothers and theirs before.  It suits us just the same. The dress she wears