Dead Wood..

It is not delusional Femininity, left them long ago. They work with wood, it is not soft. It is cured by men, in your soft parts. The more you scream, the more they soften the wood. Defrocked, your wool is bleached. Softness is not an impression left in bars that steal your breath, thighs depressed by weight oppressed in nightmares spread open. The mouth once yours is not now to speak from it harbors dreads new fear, dead seed forever spilled inside to grow, more of them once like your self... One day spent, ten thousand to grow, into wood deadwood so much harder than you soft as pulp.........................................................................