Bloom box

Anne Marie Rooney

She is pruned. In a fantastic way the juice inside has depleted the out. Drying everything. Take your fingers back.

But she doesn't. She gets the mirror. I almost wrote fetches but she doesn't. There is no skip to her. Just a fattening slink. The sun has done us all.

She gets the mirror and looks. Look up at the face, that red. Girl with her hand broken up inside. Broken not being born. It is like this after coming. Everything once becoming deflates and filth. Covers everything. If she was a boy it really would.

Be filthy. Really so. That I can just think enough. Her glasses on make her look, and not want to. Don't, take them off. The clip plays in a sick pink loop. Endless water. Repeat this. Depleting the out.

A beautiful woman, she sees the folds. Like meat. She tries to see what I see. The folds are pinches, so carefully, of clay. It is all soft, and rolling. Perfectly pressed, pleated and no. This too films over.

She is back to her meat. Stop the clip. Take the fingers back and they are wrinkled, look now. Everything's old after it films. A sheen of sadness for the shortness of. It is enough.

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