Within these walls only love lives here.
Yesterday I went knocking on her door. The wombman who answered, I felt Her gaze through the peephole—heard Her mind adjusting the locks. “Uh, I’m looking for the backslider…the broken one…the child with the contrite heart?” From out of the corner of my Eye, I saw many fingers falling from inside the window frame and bent blinds mending themselves…and then, I heard a plethora of well-blended voices spring from behind the gold-framed door—”I think you have the wrong house, she doesn’t reside here anymore.”
—♥E, burying Her dead