Allison Marie Conway

I rub my lips with my fingers until the friction starts to really burn and become too much. I bite into the agitation and think about the taste of blood. I admire a new stem which sprouts from an old root buried deep in the rich dark earth. I read your words and select a few that turn my fantasies into physical reaction. I am a miner and a thief. I am shameless. I take everything I see.

Full moon in July: The Buck Moon. The male of the species in full-on growth mode, antlers jutting above the tall thick grasses, proudly pointed for all to see. The sinister supernatural spark in the eyes of the natural world. We train ourselves to un-see, what a nihilistic privilege. As I walk past the fields, there are three of them standing stark still, staring directly at me. Frozen in place with picturesque…

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