Am I a woman? At least I have the form and lines of a woman. And the inclination to enjoy it.
I don't know what it is to be a woman, unless from the desire I have of men and the pleasure I myself enjoy of being a woman like any other... me, the spouse of this woman, this other me, the one whose image appears in the mirror; this woman who, every morning I dress in underwear and clothes that make me want to undress again- and whom every night I lay down, naked, in a bed of love.
Eyes closed, lying naked in the black of the night, I see myself, bright and quivering, in the core of my shell. My flesh is an oyster shell... soft, pearly... tightly closed yet knowing how to open up with the slowness of a rose to allow the salt of the world to enter me. Eyes closed, alone in my bed at night, I touch my smooth flesh; I walk along the paths laid out for me, I climb myself, I penetrate myself. I take fruit from my bushes, return to the light, undertake a journey of exploration. My landscapes delight me. it's fall, no, it's already winter. A cold chill kisses my bones. In ecstasy, the first snow creates a path for me. I'll follow you, until my fingers can no longer feel the velvet softness of my thighs, again... the skin of my exhausted body...
