We must possess one thing that none but ourselves will ever see. It is our silent gift that we look at in private, hold up to the light,
in the lead darkness
it glistens a little little bit
like perspiration like sweat like heaving chests unaware of
something unimportant
compared to this.

As women, we must have one item of accoutrement that after moonrise, when privacy is assured, with only a mirror and an IPod, we must model for ourselves. When women are alone, we play dress up - we put on the secret something and dance, muscles releasing catching, lightening bolt eyes refracted in oversize mirrors. We are the most alluring creatures this moist moment we have ever had the pleasure to reflect.

(what happens next is determined by the individual and pure random chaos peeking in
in...

in

whatever does happen next, I reccomend it sloppy and weird)

There's someone knocking at the closed bedroom door. I believe I'll let them let themselves

in

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