A grinding in your stomach, deeply felt, beneath the fleshy dunes your mother said would have been considered beautiful in the late 1400s. You rise and fall with the bars on your lover’s stereo. He hitches your wool skirt and ignores the hot tears that tour your face and make you think of your Renaissance sisters, stroked into existence. We girls, we bleeding, breathless girls, taking dumb solace in the fact our bodies have a long history, are politically charged, and would’ve been considered beautiful in the late 1400s. When it’s over you roll onto your stomach, inspect yourself with a period eye, and look to the site marked by tepid blots.
Image: ‘Stereo’ / flickr
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