Meera does not hesitates to flip her hair in a motion of fabricated stories. She digests the moon and the tales like a wildflower growing. Her insanity is dreams and clouds, firm and evaporating. She sleeps with her open moist lips, dripping pain, violent way. Meera is system of crystalline chunks. Chunks of pepper and sugar, all god-like. Eating donuts of memory and fables of tattoo, Meera decodes her leg movements, her lipsticks stains of your shirt, on my shirt. She trembles to bleed, yet she camouflages in an aerial dandelion. Charred scars sits like an uninvited birthday on her spine, her bosom tender and flat.
She eats moss and drink moth in her drunk eyes. Eyes of iterative smiles, often Swollen tubes and tunnel swings beneath her thought machine, to define the process further. She is a bouquet of peanuts and a container of butterflies, a lavender incense in her throat. Needles of time chew her lips, she ages like an eye-shadow, with a question of fermentations still. Afraid of love & lust, slippery of tongues and knives makes her go mad. She is insane, I said that though ! The deluge of starfish in its own cobweb, that’s her. Agony atops her lavish heart, carnival today..carnival tomorrow like pristine flakes of squalid flux days eating her emotion.
Read the first part here.