She wept for those hardened from their failures, her wisdom written in the eroded walls of her stale flower.
She wore her dick years with pride, her cavernous nethers decorated with the salty stalactites of lovers lost.
She smelled of moldy blackberries, a whore’s sweet scent. Sound out a warning, I’ve fallen inside. Blown out and oblong, she sheathed me in her rotten essence. Who am I to laugh in the face of opportunity?