Blue Jeans
Mason Crawford

I still feel ill
saying your name,
Miss

Or I should start calling you Mrs,
Does your husband
Taste the thieving of innocence
On your lips

Feel my young
Round, boy belly
On your hands

Does he know about
Your hunger for children
Mrs

See it in your eyes
How you long for the
Feeling of
An eggshell body

So
Smooth,
White,
Fragile

Mrs,
I know you’re state’s away
But I can still feel your
Breath in the nook of my neck
Your spider hands
Crawling down my ribcage
The tug of the blue jeans Continue reading “Mason Crawford, Summer 2016” →