Lost

I can't take the photos or paint the pictures in my head of the mad woman who lives there. She’s all rounded curves with soft indents and dimples in all the right places. She’s witchy, Repunzel black hair that curls around the blush of her pebbled nipples, and hides the swollen fat slit between her thighs. I have to write her, journal her, poem her--in word after word. Write her Rumpelstiltskin cleverness, her bite of the hags apple, her sacrifice to the dragon with the blood or her womanhood unashamed and alive running down her legs and returning to the mud she rose from. I have to write her a hundred ways, in a hundred stories both innocent and corrupt, but always artlessly, blatantly sexual. I don't know if I’m exorcising demons or finding myself but I can’t seem to stop.